Berliner
by Senuna
Summary: Istanbul is just a distant memory as the men from U.N.C.L.E. move on to their third joint mission: protecting a witness in '63 Boston while adjusting to their deep cover profiles. Meanwhile, Gaby is torn between her loyalty to her country and her feelings for her Russian partner in espionage. Rated M for swearing and later content.
1. Chapter one

**Disclaimer:** "You don't even own your scrawny backside!" – My parents.

 **Summary:** Istanbul is just a distant memory as the men from U.N.C.L.E. move on to their third joint mission: protecting a witness in '63 Boston while adjusting to their deep cover profiles. Meanwhile, Gaby is torn between her loyalty to her country and her feelings for her Russian partner in espionage. Rated M for swearing and later content.

 **A/N:** Brace yourselves.

It's time for a _Man from U.N.C.L.E._ multi-chapter story! Many of you might try to reason with me ("You haven't finished _Wildfire_ yet!" or "You should really try watching the original series first, you reckless son of a gun"), but I'm going to pull the writer's block card. I've tried various plot-bunnies to continue _Wildfire_ , and I've killed every single one of them (I'm terribly sorry, bunnies).

So, I figured a change of scenery might help. Basically, I'm using FanFiction as psychological therapy. Let's be honest, dear readers; we've all been there. I've watched Guy Ritchie's amazing production of _Man from U.N.C.L.E._ more times than I can count, which means I have found a suitable victim for my literary problem. The story will pick up where the movie left off, obviously.

I talk too much. Less rambling, more writing!

* * *

 **Berliner**

 _All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin, and therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words "Ich bin ein Berliner!"_ _— President John F. Kennedy, June 26 1963, West Berlin  
_

 _\- Prologue -_

It hadn't been the drug that had made her addicted.

Sure, the chemicals contributed to her dependence, her homelessness and her empty wallet, but she knew now that it had been her own body that had betrayed her. Every cell in her body craved that familiar feeling, of warmth and numbness, if only to drown out everything else. Anything could've triggered her addiction—alcohol, razor blades, father's sleeping pills—anything at all, but this was what the man in the glasses had to offer. And she gladly accepted.

It was surprisingly cold for early September, and she wrapped herself tighter in her cheap ( _stolen, whatever_ ) raincoat. Every time a breeze picked up at the shoreline, she heard rather than felt the chime of the syringes in her pocket moving gently in unison.

She vaguely recalled a biology class on classical conditioning, something about a dog and a bell. The irony of the situation didn't escape her.

The harbor was already visible in the distance, and her feet took her to the usual hideout. She spotted the worn red paint of the abandoned fisher boat, but the dirty windows were dark. Apparently Simon wasn't home.

The boat rocked softly when she stepped on the rotten wood. As always, the door to the small vessel was jammed. It took her longer than usual to open it, making her painfully aware of the weight she'd lost and the way her hands were sweating. It didn't matter anymore. She needed an escape, and she needed it now.

Simon had taught her how to use. She hated needles, but her trembling fingers uncapped the syringe anyway. She usually let Simon rub the alcohol in the crook of her right elbow, his hands gentle and soft. _Why wasn't he here?_

The needle hovered over her skin. Her free hand twitched with anticipation. With a deep breath, she expertly plunged the needle into her flesh and slowly emptied the glass capsule.

Immediately, she knew something was wrong.

She yanked the needle out of her skin and blindly reached for another syringe, her movements slow and sluggish. It was working fast, _too fast_ , and she should've checked the dosage but _Simon_ always did that. Standing up, a wave of dizziness had her stumbling hard into a cupboard and without warning her stomach emptied what little she had eaten that day. She was so cold, and scared and alone, yet a small part of her kept telling her she needed to call for help.

Simon would know what to do. He always did.

The skin of her knees broke when she collapsed against the wooden floor. Outside, a seagull cackled.

* * *

 _\- Chapter 1 -_

She didn't want to admit it at first, but Gabrielle Teller really needed some time off.

Istanbul had been a messy five-months-long mission trying to uncover a terrorism network buried in the heart of the city. As expected, Waverly had let his brand-new team fend for themselves, sending them off with a friendly wave and a couple of classified files. Gaby was used to Waverly's cryptic nature and his tendency to put new agents to the test; she had learned to accept that a long time ago. Her two partners, however—it was still strange to think of them as such, Gaby thought—had experienced more trouble with adjusting to Waverly's methods.

Solo was sitting across from her, his legs crossed as he lazily flipped through a magazine. Raindrops blurred the square window of the pilothouse as the boat cut smoothly through the waves. They were aboard the _Brave Challenger_ , a magnificent yacht built only 5 years ago, in 1958. The three gas turbines combined with surface drives could bring her to a staggering maximum speed of 60 knots, and two additional conventional engines made the yacht easily maneuverable at low speed. Gaby was a sucker for well-built cars, but she was also a mechanic, and the sleek aluminum structure framed with mahogany had her entranced.

"A beauty, isn't she?"

Gaby startled, withdrawing her hand from the polished wood she'd been absently tracing. Waverly sat down in one of the leather chairs beside Solo, and smiled at his agent. His hand clutched a file thick with paper. "Took me a while to convince Niarchos, but you'd be surprised what one can achieve with a couple of extra zeros."

Gaby had no idea who Niarchos was, but she smiled back nonetheless. "She is magnificent. Almost makes me regret I became a mechanic for cars, not yachts."

Solo lowered his magazine at this to look Gaby in the eye. "Ah, but then we wouldn't have met, would we?" It sounded more like a statement than a question. "Besides," Napoleon continued, "I'm sure Peril can teach you what he knows about boats. He proved himself quite the expert in Rome." The attempt at humor sounded somewhat forced and bitter to Gaby's ears, and once again she felt a little left out.

 _Rome._ The city brought back memories that left a particularly bad taste in her mouth. They had been through hell and back during the Vinciguerra incident, yet she couldn't help but feel there was a lot she had missed while being undercover for Waverly. In Istanbul, she had noticed the quiet cough that sometimes rattled in Illya's chest, and the faded dark callouses on Solo's fingertips—both observations proved her theory more right than wrong. She might be 'under-trained', as Waverly so blandly put it, but she was still an agent.

"First lesson: always toss Cowboy off boat. Might save your life."

Illya's baritone voice echoed through the pilothouse as he entered, ducking slightly to fit through the door. Gaby sat back in her chair, trying hard to keep her expression neutral. "I'll keep that in mind," she replied, and she was glad her voice sounded unfazed to her own ears.

(They had had a huge fight two days ago, an explosion of all the tension between them that had developed steadily since their 'engagement'. The team had been offshore in Spain, and she had used the time to re-read Kennedy's West Berlin speech; something she had wanted to do since their last day in Istanbul. Illya had commented on this, and her German temperament had reacted to his inability to see the inequity of his own country corrupted by communism. Their discussion had started out (somewhat) civilized, and soon spiraled out of control until it had nothing to do with the Cold War anymore and everything to do with whatever existed between them.  
Still, she couldn't avoid him forever, being on team U.N.C.L.E. and all. She could totally be a grown-up about it, despite wanting to shave off his Russian eyebrows. And his stupid blonde hair. With her variable-speed electric drill.)

Waverly looked from Illya to Gaby with his eyebrows slightly raised, but if he noticed something unusual he didn't say anything. Instead, he placed the file in his hands on the table between them and motioned for Illya to sit down. "Right, time for business. I presume all of you have read the file?" he asked, glancing around the table. No one reacted. "Splendid!" Waverly continued enthusiastically, "then all of you must be _delighted_ we are arriving in Boston approximately 24 hours."

"Sir, may I speak freely?" Gaby asked tentatively. Waverly nodded slowly in response.

"With all due respect, Sir, it wasn't entirely clear in the file why we're assigned to a witness protection detail. Isn't there already a team available for that task? I read in the file that they appointed Gemini and they are all highly qualified to—"

"—Gemini has been terminated. Their carelessness and lack of insight almost cost the witness her life, and landed her six-year-old son in the local hospital." Waverly's voice held no emotion, and Gaby ducked her head to avoid his icy gaze, her face suddenly burning with shame. She knew better than to question his authority, but for some reason she kept pushing all the wrong buttons today. _Way to go, Gaby_.

As if sensing her self-reproach, Waverly softened his tone. "Currently, the men, _and_ lady, from U.N.C.L.E. are the only ones competent enough to take on this mission. Which is why you'll be watching _this_ woman for the next month or so."

He plucked a worn photo from the file and placed it on the table. The picture was slightly blurry and showed a pretty woman, with wavy hair pulled back in a high ponytail. She was standing on some sort of plaza, holding a phone in one hand and a bag in the other. A badge was on a cord around her neck.

 _Mary Summers_ , Gaby's mind put a name to the unfamiliar face. _30 years old. Unmarried, partner deceased. Anesthesiologist at Massachusetts general. One child, a six-year-old boy named Alexander._

"We all know who this is," Waverly said in a matter-of-fact tone. He placed another photo on the table, this time of the boy, Alexander Wilson. Silently, he placed the next photo on top of the previous one. The third picture was grim, portraying the face of a dead young woman with her eyes half-open and unseeing. Although the photo was black-and-white, Gaby didn't find it difficult to picture blue lips accompanied by a white face and she almost wanted to look away.

"As was stated in the file, the local hospital has observed an increase of victims suffering drug-overdose, specifically diamorphine." Waverly paused, his eyes lingering on the deceased Jane Doe. "Now, diamorphine is a powerful opioid and is usually preserved for cardiac and palliative pain care. Basically, it's similar to heroin. We theorized that there is a leak in the hospital staff, a _moll,_ who trades syringes of diamorphine for hard cash. Until a week ago, we had no proof whatsoever. This is when Doctor Summers comes into play."

"She witnessed a trade," Napoleon supplied softly, his fingertips drumming on the table. During the first month of Istanbul, Gaby found Solo's constant remarks annoying and she had silently compared him to a schoolgirl yearning for the teacher's praise. After Istanbul, Gaby knew that was just Solo's way of contributing to the mission. He was dedicated and had an incredible work ethic; something she had come to appreciate more in the previous months.

"Indeed," Waverly said, looking straight at the American, "Do realize that all we have is the word of a well-respected doctor and vague hospital statistics. Your job is to identify the mastermind behind the drug trafficking, while protecting our _only_ witness and her son. We all know how messy drug-cartels can be, so the sooner you finish this mission, the better." He finished with a final glance at the table, and removed his glasses to rub his eyes. He looked older to Gaby, fatigued and worn, but she knew better than to ask him about it.

Wanting to break the silence, Gaby grabbed the picture of Mary Summers. "She is already on the drug-cartel's radar, yes? Does this give us a clue on possible suspects?"

Illya spoke before Waverly could. "The car that crashed into Doctor Summer's vehicle had no number-plate. There were two men in the car, but other than that no clues. It's in the file, Gaby," Illya finished, fixing her with a pointed stare.

She swore he said these things just to annoy her.

"Take it easy, Peril," Solo said nonchalantly before Gaby could defend herself, "We've all studied the file, Gaby was just asking a legitimate question." He cleared his throat before he continued. "However, what I couldn't find in the file, granted we have one, is our cover-profile."

"Ah, yes, the cover profiles. Rather well put together, if I might pat myself on the back," Waverly said, and Gaby was sure she saw a glint in his eye. _Please no more engagements, please no more engagements_ , she repeated in her head, feeling slightly silly for crossing her fingers. Waverly pulled three pages from the bottom of the file, handing them out.

Gaby quickly scanned the file, skipping across her cover name ( _Liesel Herschdorfer, seriously?_ ), date of birth and other details before her eyes landed on something far more horrendous than her new name or an engagement.

"Oh you have got to be kidding me," she said, feeling her temper rise, "A bakery? I work in a _bakery_?" What was she, some obnoxious farmer's girl? _God_ , this was humiliating. She was an agent, and a _damn_ _good_ one; he might as well assign her to be a nurse to hit all the sexist clichés of espionage.

"Now, now, Gaby," Waverly said, his patronizing tone now responsible for the vein throbbing on the left side of her forehead. "It was a practical decision, really. Solo and Kuryakin simply wouldn't look convincing enough in a frilly apron."

 _Oh, she was going to_ kill _him._

"I'll be lending my services to Boston's public library," Napoleon said, sounding slightly disappointed. "What have you got, Peril?"

"Judo teacher. At children school." Gaby choked back a laugh. Served him right for being an insufferable smart-ass. Waverly merely grinned at them, clasping his hands together.

"Agents, welcome to Boston."

* * *

 **A/N:** Holy smokes. I just wrote 2300 words in one go. I hope the beginning wasn't too depressing, with the girl dying and all, but those are the hard realities of drugs. Here is an important message from your Uncle (or Aunt) Bill: DON'T BUY DRUGS. Become a pop star, and they give you them for free! (I just quoted _Love Actually_. I'm awesome that way.)

I might need to explain a little where this story is going. _Man from U.N.C.L.E._ left me incredibly frustrated, the way Guy Ritchie left us hanging with all that sexual tension between Gaby and Illya. ONE KISS. One kiss and I would've been satisfied! But _nooo_ why do that when you can also leave your viewers waiting for another year or two before releasing another movie? AND THAT'S A BIG _IF_ , PEOPLE. So, I took matters into my own hands to write a sequel. A romantic-comedy version, to be precise. I just really suck at writing thriller and/or action scenes so this story might contain some of that but not too much.

Heh. I just started and I'm already disappointing you guys. I want a gold medal.

Anyway, Gaby and Illya are already fighting (YAY) because they were really (read: too) close at the end of the movie and I need them to be a little hostile to each other again. Makes it more fun to write, or I would already be done in two chapters. Also, Waverly is really hard to write because he had only a couple of scenes so I didn't have much to go on. I picture him as this serious guy with a mischievous streak, 'cause according to his file he was a gambler and I've seen gamblers on _Doctor Phil_ and therefore this was the only version of Waverly that made sense.

This author note is already longer than my dog's ginger-colored butt-hair (pardon my French). I have two more messages for you guys. First of all: I like making long author notes and I will bore you with them at the end of every chapter. Prepare yourselves for endless rants and an embarrassingly high usage of caps lock. Second message: a shirtless Illya might appear in the next chapter, but that totally depends on whether you review or not. Look at me; I'm already bribing my readers! Grandmother would be proud.

See you next chapter!


	2. Chapter two

\- Chapter two -

 **Berliner**

 _"We have to get tough with the Russians. They don't know how to behave. They are like bulls in a china shop." –_ _Harry Truman, April 1945_

* * *

"What's going on between you and Peril?"

They were inside a small clothing boutique, located in the North End of Boston. Waverly had given them a generous amount of cash as a parting gift; more than enough to buy proper clothing that fit their profiles and probably three months' worth of grocery shopping. Gaby was inside one of the changing rooms, her hands skating over her pretty green dress with floral details. _Definitely too fancy for a bakery girl_ , she thought sadly.

"Nothing is going on. Why would you think that?"

She heard Solo sigh. "For starters, you usually take Peril with you for shopping—even though his taste for fashion is _atrocious_ —and you two have been overly civil with each other since our arrival, to the point where it's almost worrying."

Gaby pulled on another dress; a deep blue one with a wide skirt, a small black belt around her waist and sleeves that reached her elbows. Not quite ready to face Solo's scrutinizing gaze, she focused her attention on her messy brown fringe.

"I asked Illya to come, but he was busy."

"We both know that's a lie, Gaby. And please come out of that changing room, that's the fifth dress you've turned down today."

Now it was Gaby's turn to sigh, and she brushed her hair out of her eyes as she stepped out of the square room. Napoleon was sitting on a leather chair, bags filled with clothes scattered around him. He stood up, one hand on his hip and the other on his chin as he eyed her critically. "Not bad, but it definitely needs a finishing touch." Without another word, he turned around the corner of the hallway, back into the store.

He was back in a minute, his hands filled with a pair of shoes and what looked like very expensive jewelry. Solo kneeled down and motioned for her to lift her right leg, carefully guiding her foot into one of the black low-heel pumps. He then stood up, towering over her as he clasped a pearl necklace around her neck. Gently, Solo placed his hands on her hips to spin her around once. He grinned boyishly.

"There. Much better. You should really try and make amends with him, Gaby. At least for the sake of our mission."

Gaby rolled her eyes at his poor attempt to persuade her. "I already told you, Illya and I are _fine_."

Solo's eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown, and his hands released her hips before resting at his sides. "Fine, be stubborn about it. Let's collect your new wardrobe and rendezvous with our perilous colleague. He's expecting us in half an hour."

They ended up making a detour, walking past the _Bova Bakery_ on Garden Street. The setting sun shimmered in the glass of the display window, and Gaby cupped her hands together to try and see inside the store. A smooth wooden counter occupied the majority of the workspace, with a vintage cashing register, and glass revealing empty shelves underneath. The wall behind the counter was adorned with more shelves, now empty except for the occasional piece of forgotten bread.

It was almost appealing to Gaby, if only she could ignore the pit in her stomach trying to work its way up her throat.

Their final destination was a couple of blocks further, and fortunately for Gaby they walked together in silence. She needed some time to think, and most of all she needed time to get her act together. For some reason, she felt on edge. It wasn't just the idea of temporarily working at the _Bova Bakery_ that caused her stomach to twist and turn whenever it pleased. When she thought about it, she'd been feeling off for quite some time now, probably since Rome, and Waverly's decision had simply added to all that frustration piling up inside her.

It was the way he'd once again condemned her to be the pawn with female parts, nice legs and basic flirting skills. As if that was all she was good for! He could have ordered Illya or Napoleon to work at the bakery— _plenty_ of men worked there—and as far as Gaby was concerned not one of them wore an apron. She'd had the exact same objective in Rome and Istanbul: endear yourself to possible male targets, look pretty, and let the boys take care of the rest. The longer she thought about it, the more it made her grind her teeth together to keep her frustration to herself.

Deep down, she knew that this was an important task of being a successful female agent, and the fact that Waverly trusted her to play the part certainly meant something to her. Yet, it also made her feel objectified and _useless_ —like she was forever cursed to play the role of trophy wife/bimbo girlfriend/hooker for hire. She thought she'd proven her worth in Turkey, saving the boys and everything, but now she wasn't so sure anymore. It was this unfamiliar feeling of self-doubt—this weak, stupid _insecurity_ —that pissed her off to no end and thus encouraged her to use Waverly's face to drill a hole through a brick wall.

(Fortunately, Gaby had an impressive amount of self-control. As long as she stayed _completely_ sober, she should be fine.)

Solo's hand on her elbow brought her back to reality. He was looking at her strangely, and she casually raised an eyebrow in return.

"We're here," he said, tilting his head towards the door. "Alright there, Gaby?"

"Yes. Peachy." She held his gaze and watched him open and close his mouth, obviously debating with himself whether this was really a conversation he was ready to have with his female (and apparently moody) colleague. He didn't need to think much longer on it, because the heavy mahogany door swung open to reveal a flustered looking Illya.

"Do you _want_ to blow our cover, Cowboy? Hurry and come inside!"

* * *

Something was definitely amiss, and Napoleon Solo was hell-bent on figuring out what.

He had been observing Illya and Gaby for the past two hours, watching them with mild amusement as they tiptoed around the elephant in the room in a way that was almost endearing. But enough was enough. Their mission would be their reality in less than 24 hours, so Solo needed his team razor sharp, even if that meant he would no longer be able to enjoy Peril stumbling over his own words like a child on his first day of school.

"Very well, team," Solo began loudly, and Peril looked almost relieved at this interruption. It truly was hard not to like the guy. "Let's go over our strategy one final time."

 _There was sufficient sexual tension in Rome, if I recall correctly_ , Napoleon thought, thinking hard. In an attempt to urge his brain to work on two tasks simultaneously, Napoleon started pacing the room.

"Tomorrow at 07.30, Doctor Summers will drop off Alexander at Newman Elementary School. After, she will take the usual route to Massachusetts General."

 _I even interrupted what looked like Illya's long-overdue first kiss. His mother doesn't count, of course._

"I will watch the boy during class, make sure he is safe," Illya said slowly, glancing at Gaby. He traced the map of Boston, his stubby index finger starting at Newman Private School and stopping at the hospital's location. "Solo will shadow Doctor, before work. To protect her from harm."

 _But Istanbul was different. I barely saw Gaby and Illya saw her even less, until she drove our car off the road to save us. I bet that was payback._

Oh, right, the mission.

"And then I will attend my shift at the Public Library, in case Doctor Summers shows her face," Solo added hurriedly, ignoring the questioning look on Illya's face. "I will also determine Summers' books of preference; that might reveal why she is suddenly spending her spare evenings at the Library."

 _No, the strain in their relationship started long after that. Probably during our time on the Brave Challenger._ Solo bit his lip, mentally trying to recover what he'd missed. _We stopped in Spain, Málaga; I left for the local market. The spices there are_ incredible _, by the way_. _Illya and Gaby went to the beach together, after seven, and they returned to our ship after ni—Oh my God. There is only one possible explanation._ _  
_ _  
They totally had sex._

"I will watch Summers when she goes to her usual bistro, the _Bova Bakery_ at Garden Street, for lunch. In the afternoon, when our shifts are finished, Illya will stake out at Summers' house while you and I investigate the abandoned Fisher's boat. Where the police found the last victim." With that, Gaby tugged the photo of the deceased girl from the file on her lap, placing it on the coffee table. Her fingers lingered for a second before releasing the picture. She looked fatigued to Napoleon, dare he say drained, but his racing mind paid no further attention to this observation.

 _This is it! This explains why they are acting more like emotionally dysfunctional teenagers than average. They can barely look each other in the eye!_

Now, who said a man isn't capable of multi-tasking?

"Superb!" Solo exclaimed, and Gaby jumped at his loud voice. He busied himself with closing his file, trying hard to erase the shit-eating grin that was most definitely plastered on his face. "Very good, folks. I believe we have nothing left to discuss. Let's call it a night." _So I can retreat to my own apartment to process the thought of my two closest colleagues having sex. No amount of therapy is going to help me now._ Napoleon shivered involuntarily and out of the corner of his eye, saw Gaby do the same.

Gaby felt tired, and she wrapped her arms around her middle in an attempt to fight off the cold. _It feels like Moscow in here, for the love of God_. _Even Solo is shivering_. As if reading her mind, Illya stood up from his leather chair to close the open window behind Napoleon. His right hand lingered on the scarlet curtain. "I think a storm is coming. You should both head back soon," Illya said softly,

"Your apartment is on Portland Street, right?"

Gaby frowned at Solo. There was something in his voice that made her feel suspicious, and she chose her next words carefully. "Yes, but you know that already. It's in the fi—"

"You should sleep here!" Solo interrupted bluntly. "The weather is already quite horrid, and we don't want you caught in the middle of it."

"It's literally a ten minute walk!" Gaby fired back, now seeing what Solo was trying to do. She had made herself perfectly clear to him this morning. _I am not going to sit here and allow him to play match-maker. Over my dead body._ "I am perfectly capable of walking home."

"I think Cowboy has a point. You don't even have a coat." Illya was standing next to her, and the worried look in his eyes almost convinced Gaby to cave. But she was still her father's daughter, and that meant being stubborn was as natural to her as breathing. "I didn't bring anything! How can I sleep here if I don't even have pajamas?"

"Illya will lend you something." At this, Illya's head jerked up, looking abashed.

"You are being ridiculous!" Gaby shot back.

"Let's cut to the chase here, shall we?" Napoleon silenced Gaby, stepping closer to her. She set her jaw, and lifted her head to compensate for their difference in height. Gaby felt Illya move closer to the both of them, but she ignored him. This was her argument, not his.

"You two obviously have something to work out," Solo said matter-of-factly.

Illya looked more confused than Gaby felt. "We do?"

"And I suggest you take care of that tonight. We can't have _any_ distractions during our mission. Waverly emphasized the importance of protecting this woman and her son, meaning we need to get our heads back in the game because believe it or not but it already started without us." Solo began moving towards the door, and dusted off the shoulders of his dark grey coat. "So play nice, kids, and for the love of _God_ , play safely. Sayonara!" And with a final wave, Napoleon was out the apartment.

* * *

"Americans." Illya huffed softly, his racing heart slowly calming down. "Always dramatic."

He wasn't entirely sure what had just transpired, but Gaby was positively fuming so Solo must have said something that upset her. He feared, no, was _sure_ , it had something to do with the rising tension between him and Gaby. He wasn't very keen on going down that road, but if them talking about it was vital for the success of their mission, Illya couldn't refuse.

"Would you like something to drink?" He asked carefully, and to his relieve she seemed to relax slightly.

"I don't suppose Vodka is such a good idea, right?" Gaby replied. She looked up at him, her dark eyes twinkling.

Illya released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Tea, then."

They ended up sitting on the couch, the files on the table now neatly tucked away in their folders. Gaby was sitting on Illya's right, her legs folded, sipping her tea quietly. She seemed distant to Illya, her eyes locked on the TV-screen but clearly not registering the images. Unsure of how to initiate conversation, Illya reached for the blanket on his left and offered her the woolen fabric.

"You seemed cold," Illya stated, his voice low. Gaby smiled back gratefully, and placed her cup on the coffee table to draw the blanket around her shoulders.

"We should talk, Illya." Gaby said after settling back on the couch. Illya turned off the TV, turning his body towards her. The single light in the corner of the room illuminated her face, and suddenly Illya was back in Rome again, only they were both on the floor, one drunk and the other significantly annoyed, locked in an embrace that was as vivid a memory as every other time they touched. Illya startled when he felt Gaby pinch his arm.

"I'd appreciate it if you don't zone out like you always do." Anger laced her voice, but the emotion was quickly replaced with uncertainty. "I'm really trying here, Illya."

"Right. Sorry." Illya cleared his throat, bracing himself. "I am. Really sorry. About the things I said."

 _Smooth, Kuryakin._ When Gaby didn't reply—probably because she wasn't satisfied by his weak attempt—Illya continued.

"I said things I shouldn't have said. In Málaga. So…I apologize for that."

Abruptly, Gaby was on her feet. The blanket was still clinging to her thin frame, emphasizing her narrow shoulders and waist.

"God, Illya. Do you really think that's the issue here? That is not what this is about, why can't you see that?" Her voice sounded shrill, both of her hands clenched in frustration, but Illya honestly had no idea what this outburst was about or how to react to it.

"You don't want me to apologize?" Illya guessed.

"No! I mean, yes! It's just…You're apologizing for the wrong reasons! Are you really that thick?"

Now Illya was standing, towering over her. Her anger was always contagious to him, and he tried to calm himself before saying something he'd most definitely regret. As soon as it had come, Gaby's anger dissipated, and she looked worn and older than her actual age. Illya never expected he would associate those words with Gaby, and worry for his friend overshadowed the anger simmering in his veins.

"Never mind. I'm sorry. We both had a long day, let's just get some sleep and talk about this later. We have a mission to focus on."

Puzzled, Illya watched her fold the blanket and place it on the couch. Something was bothering her, apparently something he'd done, or _not_ done, in the past. Clearly, this was not about Málaga. Was it Istanbul? Rome, perhaps? Or somewhere in between missions? Did he not show enough that he cared for her? Illya's mind drew a complete blank, like it usually did when it came to women. _Why does everything have to be so complicated?_ Illya thought, feeling frustrated.

On auto-pilot, he followed Gaby to the bedroom, his mind still working overtime. He nearly bumped into her when she suddenly stopped in the doorway.

"Just one bed?" She asked quietly.

Illya hummed in reply, maneuvering his body around her to grab a worn t-shirt. He threw it at Gaby, together with a clean towel. "Bathroom's around the corner. If you want to shower."

Gaby nodded, looking almost as awkward as Illya felt. Then she squared her shoulders, as if she tried to convince herself that this wasn't a big deal, and left for the bedroom.

Illya began to unbutton his white dress shirt. Thinking longer about this entire situation, he realized that this really _wasn't a big deal_. They were colleagues, friends, and they had been in close quarters many times since becoming team U.N.C.L.E. Sometimes, he'd dream of that day in Rome, where he cradled her fragile body in his arms, both of them aching and soaked to the bone. Other nights, he'd dream of Istanbul, where she'd saved him and Solo, and the way she'd clung to him when she was allowed to see them in the hospital. They could handle this, whatever _this_ was, like they had handled everything else life threw at them.

He was sitting on the edge of his side of the bed when she returned, her dark hair almost dry and his t-shirt brushing the skin of her thighs. The mattress barely dipped under her weight when she climbed in bed, and suddenly Illya felt self-conscious. He was muscular, but his chest was littered with scars, some ugly and messy compared to the smooth skin of Gaby's legs. He avoided her eyes when he turned to dim the lights.

"Dobroy nochi." The sound of his mother tongue breaking the silence surprised him, and he smiled softly. He was once again being ridiculous. This was Gaby he was talking about, his chop shop girl. They would figure this out, this tension between them, and they definitely did not need Solo's help with that. _Tomorrow,_ Illya promised himself. _Tomorrow, we'll talk._

Dozing off, he returned the Russian phrase softly.

* * *

 **A/N:** This chapter took FOREVER. And it is also a mess. Hopefully a glorious mess ya'll are enjoying thoroughly. However, there are some things that need to be addressed.

1\. First of all, MY GOD I AM LATE with this chapter. Like a pregnant girl's period. Or a pubescent boy's chest-hair. I'm later than Bruce Jenner admitting he actually wants to be a chick. Get the picture? I'm late.

2\. Illya is so damn hard to write! Is he angst-y? Is he sure of himself? Does he even fancy women? I'm fairly convinced that he's lost when it comes to the opposite sex—Oedipus complex, bad childhood, yadda yadda—but I didn't want him to come across as a complete idiot. He's still a spy, and every spy has to seduce someone at some point in their career. Or sleep with them. Napoleon Solo: I'm looking at you, pal.

3\. I know Gaby is a strong and capable woman, but I believe everyone has a breaking point. In this story, Gaby has definitely reached hers. She is insecure, anxious, and basically everything you would not associate with her. The previous missions took their toll on all of them, however, Gaby probably has the most difficulty with coping. She's a spy, but less experienced, and she is still a human-being with feelings and fears. She's not experiencing a burn-out, nor depression, but she's got shit she has to deal with and she obviously isn't ready to. Luckily for her, Illya can help her with that (after he finally gets his head out of his Russian ass).

Coming up: Doctor Summers makes an appearance! And we might get to find out where that other junky called Simon disappeared to. I just realized this rant was surprisingly polite. Yay me! Oh, and please R&R, that makes me feel all warm and gooey inside like a freshly-baked chocolate-chip cookie. Or an active volcano. Whichever you prefer.


	3. Chapter three

\- Chapter three -

 **Berliner**

 _"But a vague question lingered in my mind. Our rats consumed much more morphine when they were isolated. This fact definitely undermined the supposed proof that certain drugs irresistibly cause addiction. (...) People do not have to be put into cages to become addicted – but is there a sense in which people who become addicted actually feel 'caged'?" — Bruce K. Alexander, Professor Emeritus, Simon Fraser University, 2010  
_

* * *

First, he had stumbled into the E.R. as if quietly drunk.

She had watched him bump softly against the front desk. He turned slowly, raising his arms like a child trying to protect himself from harm would do, but there was no one behind the desk to start a fight with. He moved like a man submerged in water, his movements slowed down by the density of invisible liquid.

Second, he started vomiting.

She had expected him to, so her pace had broken into a run in a feeble attempt to catch him. His flailing limbs disappeared behind the desk shortly after that. In less than ten seconds she was by his side, enough time to slip back into her profession. _Young male in his twenties. Pale, vomiting, ataxia, now unconscious. Possible diagnosis: brain trauma (though no blood stained his shirt or hair), epilepsy (he smelled of urine, so plausible), intoxication (alcohol perhaps?), suicide attempt (God. He's only twenty)._ Her confident hands guided him to lie on his side and swiftly tipped his head back.

Third, his breathing came to a halt, but slowly, like a train carefully arriving at a packed station. As she tried to stabilize him—her fingers hurried to remove all the vomit from his oral cavity—what she feared became a painful reality. Small pin-pricks in the curve of his pale skin. Combined with fixed pinpoint pupils, it wasn't hard for her to conclude where this was going. His pulse escaped her fingertips pressed into the hollow between his slack neck muscles.

He had been the fifth to die of drug overdose that week.

"Anything else, miss?"

Mary jolted. Large brown eyes were watching her patiently. The woman's face, Mary estimated she was in her late twenties, reminded her of her favorite uncle. She hadn't seen him in years, and after today's ordeal, the desperate need to talk to him settled in her stomach.

 _Emotionally unstable_ , _probably on her period_. The words left a bitter taste in her mouth. She'd overheard her colleagues in the locker room, and she'd seen their judgmental stares. It stung, not because she'd fought so hard to gain her colleagues' respect, but because she was afraid they were right.

Her uncle had once explained to her that this was the way of the world. So, as cliché as it sounded, she shouldn't raise her voice, but her argument. It was the only thing the academic world responded to. Yet how could she do that if she wasn't even sure of her own abilities? If she couldn't save her patients, what point was there in trying to fight for her career?

The woman cleared her throat gently.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Mary pointed to the pastries and hurriedly added a 'please'. The girl moved slowly, no, _uncertainly_ was the right word, and Mary wondered if she had ever seen her before.

"This is my first day, actually. I'm from Germany."

"I've been to Berlin once, it was lovely," Mary smiled, feeling a little embarrassed. _Get a grip, Marianne, right now_. Her patients might always be drugged into oblivion, so her words would go unnoticed, but this fact didn't apply to the real world, with _real_ social situations. She needed to keep herself together, at least for the time being.  
 _  
_"I'm Mary Summers," Mary started, "I work at Massachusetts nearby."

 _Oh so_ now _you suddenly want to make conversation?_ A cynical voice jabbed at Mary.

"Liesel Herschdorfer. Nice to meet you, Miss Summers. Have a good day."

"You too, Liesel," Mary replied, accepting the paper bag with both hands. Liesel nodded, and, the money still clutched in her palm, watched Mary leave. Berlin had sparked another memory, of Peter, one that usually reared its ugly head when she'd had too many drinks after a difficult case, and for the second time that day Mary wondered if maybe, _just maybe_ , her colleagues weren't entirely wrong about her.

 _Took you long enough_ , the voice whispered, ugly with repugnance. _Perhaps now we can get back to repairing the damage you've done?_

The heavy door shut softly, and Gaby had been silently watching Mary hesitate at the threshold for about 20 seconds. Crisp October air had filled the Bova Bakery, and Gaby fingered the money she was still holding with her fingers. Was it something she had said? Had she blown her cover somehow? Gaby had made sure not to hesitate when speaking her name—a rookie mistake she had made on her first undercover op—but something about Mary had seemed…distinctively off. Seconds after making a mental note about it, the door swung open again, and with it came jet black hair and the penetrating smell of cheap perfume.

"Oh, my, _God_ , you must be the other newbie! _So_ excited to meet you! That is _such_ a cute dress! I just saw Doctor Summers outside the store with her pastries and—Oh my _God_ you probably have no idea who you just met, do you?" The girl's voice had gone from high-pitched to a whisper as she said all this in one breath, her light brown eyes alight with excitement and her eyebrows raised high.

A big bag lined with pink fabric was unceremoniously dumped next to the cash register. The girl was still talking, something about the weather and god-awful shoes, and there was little else Gaby could do but let the intensity of this woman's personality wash over her. Long nails tapped impatiently on the worn wood, and a nasty headache was already pounding just behind Gaby's right eye.

"So? Do you?" the girl asked impatiently, leaning in as if she was about to tell Gaby the juiciest gossip of last weekend.

Which Gaby, for the record, totally expected her to.

Clearing her throat, Gaby brushed her fringe out of her eyes. What she wanted to say was: _Oh, yes, as a matter of fact, I am a secret spy appointed to shadow and protect Doctor Mary Summers, because she might become the target of a large drug cartel, which earns money by selling diamorphine on the streets while sharing the profit with a traitorous colleague of Doctor Summers. Also, I absolutely_ hate _baking._

What came out was: "I honestly don't have a single clue." Judging by the look on the girl's face, Gaby gave the correct answer.

"I know we're both newbies but _please_! She is _the_ best _and_ youngest anesthesiologist in the country! She became an anesthesiologist at age twenty-six. _Twenty-six!_ Can you believe that? She's basically a prodigy, and she comes to _our_ bakery! I'm Nina, by the way, Nina Bova. This is my daddy's store, obviously. I love your haircut, _so_ European."

"Bova?" Gaby echoed lamely. She didn't remember seeing anything in the file saying that the boss' daughter would work here. How could Waverly leave out this kind of information?

Nina took Gaby's outstretched hand with both of her own and pulled Gaby closer, her voice dropping to a low whisper. Mentally, Gaby already struggled to keep up with Nina. "Daddy owns the company, and he asked me to help out for a couple weeks starting today while he's away for a business trip. _Naturally,_ I agreed, because Jeff is _the hottest_ guy in town and a girl needs some eye-candy, _right?_ Just don't tell him I said that."

"Don't tell what to whom?" a deep voice interrupted, and Nina quickly let go of Gaby's hand. In the door opening was a face Gaby _did_ recognize from the files, and she had to agree with Nina; Jeffrey Mayfield had a strong jaw, chestnut colored hair, hazel eyes and no apparent excuse as to why he was still single.

"Nothing, Jeff. You're looking handsome, as always." Nina flirted shamelessly. Gaby barely managed to resist the urge to roll her eyes.

Jeff chuckled, looking visibly embarrassed. "Thank you, Nina. You do realize I'm ten years your senior, right?"

"Doesn't affect my eyesight, does it?"

"I'm Liesel!" Gaby interrupted hastily, stretching her hand towards Jeff. His hand was warm and calloused, and reminded her of Illya. Only Jeff smelled of bread and aftershave, and Illya was this musky smell of dark chocolate mixed with gunpowder and— _focus, Gaby!_

"Ah, another new colleague. Good to see you two are getting along. How is your first day going, Liesel?"

Gaby opened her mouth to respond, but her voice was drowned out by the laughter of three young doctors stumbling into the bakery. Jeff gave her an apologetic look and squeezed her shoulder. "Back to business, both of you. If you need anything girls, let me know. I'll be out in the back."

And with that, Jeff turned around, leaving Gaby to deal with three hungry customers and a hysteric Nina who just witnessed Jeff physically flirting with Gaby, and demanded Gaby tell her _everything_ about anyone she had ever dated in the past.

* * *

"Were you followed?"

Gaby shook her head. "I had a tail for one minute, but lost him after I took a detour to the nest. We're alone."

Solo nodded his approval. It was 6.30 P.M., but the sky was nearly dark with the purple and blue colors of an autumn night. Street lights illuminated the harbor, them and a couple of other people going out for an evening stroll. Napoleon offered his arm and Gaby placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. Together they started for the crime scene 200 yards away, while exchanging today's information in low murmurs.

"Met my new colleague. Can I work at your place, please?"

"That bad, huh?"

"Hm. Hummingbird came in today. Paid with cash. She seemed distracted."

"I spoke to Eagle. Blackbird was sighted and safe. We already reported it to Phoenix."

"Any word on Crow?"

Solo shook his head. "Negative. We're here." Gaby looked up and followed his gaze towards the small fisher boat resting next to the dock. If it hadn't been for Napoleon, she probably would've walked right past it. The red paint was so worn it was almost pink, and the wood of the small pilothouse was clearly rotting. The boat looked ready to sink, and Gaby found it hard to believe that people had actually _lived_ there.

"Pigeon was found in there?" Gaby asked.

"No. A hundred yards northwards. Pigeon was carried outside by someone. We don't know by whom."

Gaby carefully removed the remainder of police tape and set foot on the wood, the boat rocking slowly underneath her feet. The wood moaned, but held her weight. Solo was closely behind, and Gaby was grateful he was there with her. The crime-scene was downright eerie.

The pilothouse door was ajar, and a peculiar smell filled Gaby's nostrils the moment she pushed open the door. Solo stayed in the door opening, keeping watch for any unwanted visitors. The police had already cleared the area, so most items that held any significance were already taken to the bureau. However, what the police didn't know is that a local unit of Waverly had observed activity in the fisher boat following the girl's death. Clearly, someone had come back, and it was up to Gaby and Solo to figure out who this person was.

No moonlight illuminated the boat, so Gaby was using all her senses to try and uncover any clues. "It smells like chicken. Someone had lunch here today," Gaby whispered to Solo. She walked towards the cupboard, her hands finding the door unhinged, as if someone had knocked into it hard. The cupboard was empty. Her eyes caught an empty syringe lying on the floor. It was unused. "There's nothing here, Napoleon, they took every—"

That's when she saw it.

"—thing. Hang on."

Napoleon turned his upper body towards her, his dark eyebrows raised. "What is it?"

It was so small she had almost missed it. Behind the cupboard, carved into the wood, was a name, encircled by an asymmetrical heart. "A name, Simon H., or something. It's in the wood, right there," Gaby pointed at the wall, and when Solo's eyes adjusted to the light he saw it too.

"Excellent. Write it down, will you? I think Phoenix would like to see this."

* * *

There were many things Illya Kuryakin was good at. He played chess at a high level; he was an experienced judoka; he could operate a power boat with his hands tied behind his back. He believed he was a good spy, loyal to his colleagues and his country, at least up until the moment he and Solo had decided to burn the nuclear codes. Yet every agent had to acknowledge their weaknesses in order to improve themselves, and unfortunately, Illya was currently dealing with one of them.

Children.

During his career as a KGB agent, children had always been a nuisance. They got kidnapped, they spilled truths when they needed to hold their tongues, told lies when they were asked for truth, and most of all they rubbed salt into the emotional wounds of his own childhood. And as if that wasn't enough, he was currently being observed by fifteen of them. Uncovering a terrorist network in Istanbul suddenly didn't seem like such a big deal anymore.

 _Never thought I'd prefer Istanbul over this…_ Illya thought bitterly. _  
_  
The children were all seated against the back wall of the school's gym, their white uniforms in stark contrast to the red brick. Like Illya, everyone was wearing a judo suit with matching black belts, theirs a first degree, Illya's a fourth degree. He was demonstrating the characteristic judo roll in silence, when a small hand shot up into the air. Illya settled on ignoring the girl with blonde pig-tails, and allowed his body to fall back into the judo roll.

"Excuse me, why are you so tall?"

Several children chuckled, and Illya finished his demonstration before he turned his attention to the girl. At full height, Illya supposed his posture would be enough to intimidate the class into silence. "Only questions about judo, not me."

Another hand went up. "You talk strange." More chuckles. _Are these children deaf?_ Illya wondered irritably. He glanced at his watch, desperately wishing for this day to end. "Was there a question, child?"

"Cool scar, did you bump your head?" It was Alexander, his dark hair messy and his brown eyes big with curiosity. _Blackbird_ , Illya thought warily. _All I need to do is watch Blackbird_.

"Arab spy. He attacked me with dagger. But don't worry, I killed him."

To Illya's confusion, Alexander turned very pale. _Now what? Did I say something wrong?_

"Can I use the lavatory?" Alexander squeaked, his eyes darting from Illya to the door. He was fidgeting on his seat, and he looked ready to bolt. "I really need to go. Sir."

"Yes. I mean, no! After training. First, we practice judo roll. Now, pay attention."

He demonstrated the judo roll again and again, the familiarity of the movement taking his mind off the children watching him. Unlike popular believe, it had been his mother who had instilled in him his passion for judo. His father never bothered to show up to practice or a competition, as he was always at work; his mother had encouraged and supported him from the sidelines week after week.

Childhood with her had been peaceful, his _life_ with her had been peaceful, until his father had ruined everything Illya held most dear with his selfish greed. Just like that, at the age of 12, a young and innocent Illya had watched everything around him tumble into a black hole of pain and suffering, like a judo roll in a blazing fire that would never come to an end.

* * *

 _"So… Do you come here often?"_

 _She blinked dramatically, her head angled at his question. When she answered with her silence, Napoleon cleared his throat and tried again._

 _"I love your necklace, very haute couture. Correct me if I'm wrong, but is that a Paco Rabanne?"_

 _More silence. Napoleon stirred in his tea. "I thought so. Fabulous choice. So, enough chit-chat already: I leave at 7 so I can pick you up at eight. Where do you live?"_

 _The French Bulldog barked, then whimpered pathetically. Several people in the library looked up irritably, some hushed at the dog and resumed their afternoon reading session. Solo downed his lukewarm tea and leaned against the desk. How did people work in libraries all day? Didn't they ever get bored? Museums he could understand, but libraries? They weren't exactly his scene._

 _"I thought you should know, that dog is a male."_

 _Napoleon whirled around. Light blue eyes were watching him, the corners of her lips curled up in an amusing smile. Napoleon wasn't sure why they called her Hummingbird, but she sure matched its beauty._

 _"Now_ that _explains why he resisted my advances. And here I was thinking it was the language barrier."_

 _Mary chuckled, bending down to ruffle the dog's hair. "He's a real sweetheart, this one. Mrs. Dubois owns him, but she always leaves him at the desk when she's in the library. I'm Mary, by the way."_

 _"Nathan, Nathan Harris." Napoleon grasped her small hand, "Is there anything I can do for you, Mary?"_

The siren of an ambulance disturbed Napoleon's memory. He was standing at her doorstep, black purse clutched in his hand, unsure why he was hesitant to knock. Was it unusual for a librarian to bring customers their forgotten possessions? Would this compromise his cover? Or would he perhaps learn something valuable to the mission?

At the library, he had been watching her closely behind his newspaper. He even brought her a book: _Gray's Anatomy_ , in order to casually look over her shoulder and find out what she'd been reading. But the only peculiar thing was that nothing had seemed out of the ordinary. As far as he was concerned, she was just a renowned anesthesiologist brushing up on her theoretical knowledge in her spare time. Yet his gut told him that she was the last person who needed to refresh her memory. So why was she there? What, or who, was she looking for?

He pushed the doorbell. _Here goes nothing_ , Napoleon thought absently. The door opened slowly, and Mary peeked around the corner.

"Mr. Harris? What—Oh, my purse!"

Solo shrugged his shoulders, giving her a small smile. "I hope I'm not overstepping my boundaries here," he started carefully, "But I thought you might want this back as soon as possible."

She looked a little flustered, her blonde hair pulled up in a high ponytail. Either he had _really_ overstepped his boundaries, or she'd been looking for her purse in a blind panic. Taking his experience with women into account, it could very well be both options. He thanked his lucky stars that it was him, not Illya, who was assigned to work at the library. Peril would have made a right mess, that's for sure.

"That is very kind of you, I was just getting ready to go back to the library to get it. Please, come in. Do you want some coffee? I just made a pot."

"I never say no to coffee," Napoleon replied. _Thin ice, Solo, thin ice_ , a voice in the back of his head warned him.

Mary's house was neat, and decorated in a very British manner. The file said that she was born in England, but moved here when she was twenty-one, right after finished med-school at record-speed. His eyes skimmed over the furniture. A couple of toys were scattered next to the couch, but no sign of Alexander. Either he was still in day-care, or Illya had killed him during judo practice. Solo put his money on the latter.

"There you go," Mary said softly, handing Solo his cup of coffee. "So, Nathan, did they upgrade your position of librarian?"

"Huh?" He stammered. _Smooth, Napoleon_.

"You don't usually bring customers their forgotten items, do you?" Mary continued, sipping her coffee. Solo blinked, his brain finally catching up. "I make exceptions every now and then."

She nodded slowly, shyly averting her eyes to the wall. Picture frames decorated it, and he felt his gaze following hers. There was Alexander, next to a man he didn't immediately recognize (probably Peter?), a picture of Mary and her best friend, a picture of a dog, a picture of—

No way. It can't be...?

He walked towards the wall. "You have a wonderful family, Mary. Forgive my curiosity, but could it be possible that I saw this man today at the library? He has one of those faces…"

Mary squinted her eyes, then laughed. "That would be impossible," she said, sounding amused, "He's in England, last I heard. Haven't spoken to him in years. He's my uncle, Alex. Peter insisted on naming our son after him, they were quite close…" her voice trailed off, as if she felt like she had overshared. Napoleon had already stopped listening, and swallowed a mouthful of coffee.

 _No fucking way._

And sure enough, the light blue eyes of Alexander Waverly were staring back at Napoleon.

* * *

 **A/N:** Surprise! I'm back! I can't apologize enough for leaving you hanging for so long, but I have something to make up for my absence: I'm publishing two chapters in a row! Which is why I will leave this author's note short, so I can get back to finishing the fourth chapter. I have also decided to slightly update previous chapters by taking out part of my rants: I really want to focus on my writing technique _and_ I want my readers to enjoy this story without having to skip too much to get to the next chapter. Alas, enough talk (it's an occupational hazard, people): it's time for chapter four!


	4. Chapter four

\- Chapter four -

 **Berliner**  
 _  
_ _Principal Evans_ _: "Mr. and Mrs. Abagnale, this is not a question of your son's attendance. I regret to inform you that, for the past week, Frank has been teaching Mrs. Glasser's French class."  
_ _Paula Abagnale_ _: "He what?"  
_ _Principal Evans_ _: "Your son has been pretending to be a substitute teacher, lecturing the students, uh, giving out homework, uh. Mrs. Glasser has been ill, there was some confusion with the real sub. Your son held a teacher-parent conference yesterday and was planning a class field trip to a French bread factory in Trenton." — Catch Me If You Can, 2002_

* * *

"Tell me, what did you see?"

 _Right now, I don't see a fucking thing_. _Why can't he fix that light?_ "A man and a woman. They were visiting the boat, together. I was too far away to hear their conversation. Sir."

He chuckled, his voice deep and clear, echoing off the tiled walls. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, almost as old as the place itself. They always met here, though it had never become clear why, and the place held that same unsettling atmosphere as the day this all started.

"Is that what you came to tell me? That a man and a woman, on a Monday evening, visited an abandoned fisher's boat with nothing of any value in it? Do you realize I postponed a deal for this bullshit?" His voice was even, almost monotonous, and that was far more worrying than his usual outbursts.

"No, Sir, what I meant to say is—"

"What you meant to say is: _Sorry, Sir, I'm a fuck-up, Sir, terribly sorry for wasting your precious time. Now allow me to drown myself in the shower like the pathetic weakling I am_." He stood up slowly, and lit a cigarette. "You're dismissed, Nic."

Out of the corner of the room, a shadow moved. _He's right, I am a fuck-up, a useless piece of shit. But he needs to know, he needs to know or he'll be blindsided and it'll be my fault_.

"Please sir, you need to—"

"What I need is for you to get the fuck out. Anthony, love, tell the Doctor we're availa—"

"She works at Bova Bakery!"

Silence. The cigarette was hanging limply from his lips. His eyebrows furrowed, then his face was a blank canvas again. He walked around the table separating them without breaking eye-contact, and took the cigarette from his lips to allow a small smile to creep across his face.

"Let's try this again. Very slowly this time, Nic. What did you see?

* * *

Illya adjusted his fake glasses, and absent-mindedly turned a page. Behind the newspaper, the red bricks of Hummingbird's house gleamed in the morning sun. His eyes fell on the date. October 8th, 1963. A Tuesday. To Illya, the best day of the week, because of one simple reason.

No judo class.

In the lining of Illya's coat, a quiet crackling disturbed the silence. His eyes remained glued to the newspaper.

" _Pst. Peril. Do you copy? Over._ "

To an outsider, it would look like the spectacled man sitting on the bench was deeply engrossed by his newspaper. Only a trained eye and mind could spot Illya's thumb moving to press the push-to-talk button of the walkie-talkie hidden in his coat.

"Loud and clear, Cowboy. I'm in position. Over."

" _I assumed. Good for you. That's not why I called, though. Over._ "

Illya nodded to an elderly man passing by. The moment the stranger was out of range, he thumbed the button. "I'm listening. Over."

" _Peril…I'm bored._ "

Illya had to stop himself from groaning out loud. _And this was his problem because?_ These walkie-talkies were already proving themselves to be a nuisance. Waverly had given them at the start of their mission, who in turn had received them as a gift from Donald Hings. Illya supposed those were the perks of being commander of U.N.C.L.E. and a former MI5 spy. Waverly's career had earned him more favors than a man was able to collect in a lifetime.

"Did you get a hit on Robin?"

" _Affirmative. Deceased. OD'd in the Nest on Monday. Over._ "

Illya bit his lip, frustrated welling up in his chest. Their only lead, Simon H. code-named _Robin_ , had escaped their nets. They were back at square one. Illya glanced at the house. Everything was quiet, then the walkie-talkie crackled.

" _One more thing, Peril. About Hummingbird. Over._ "

"Proceed. Over."

A long pause. Illya was just about to repeat his message when the walkie-talkie spit out: " _Hummingbird is related to Phoenix. Over._ "

Illya stopped scanning the newspaper. His first thought was that he'd misheard the message. As far as he knew, Waverly didn't have any family left. Both parents were orphans, now deceased and had no brothers and sisters. At least that's what the file said. So why was he currently spying on a woman's house with Waverly blood?

He chose his next words carefully. "Related how? Over."

Solo's response was curt. Illya flipped another page. _Uncle… Interesting._ Illya wasn't sure how, but his gut told him that this piece of information changed everything. In his world, there was no such thing as a coincidence. The universe was rarely so lazy.

No, there had to be a reason for this. Waverly's family was now involved. Situations like these were hardly routine. What struck Illya as odd was that Waverly had chosen to leave out this information during their briefing on _The Brave Challenger_. Illya's mind listed several explanations, but without any context there was no way of prioritizing them.

The walkie-talkie buzzed again. _Can't he shut up for one. Damn. Second?_ Illya thought, his temper flaring.

" _Don't think so hard, Peril. You'll hurt yourself. It's probably irrelevant. Over_." Solo's voice was casual, lazy almost, but Illya knew that tone because his mind had expressed it many times during his time as a KGB agent. It was the troubled tone of not-knowing; the possibility of being blind-sided with terrible consequences.

Illya's thumb flicked on the button, when subtle movement caught his eye. His hand pressed the button, seconds-long, when he spotted movement again. It was subtle, just a flicker of a shadow, but it was enough for Illya. Something, _someone_ , was in Doctor Summer's house. His eyes flicked from window to window, desperate to detect that movement again, and his finger stopped worrying the walkie-talkie button.

" _Sorry, Peril, I didn't catch that. Over._ "

"Someone's in the—" Illya started, then remembered to push the button halfway through his sentence. "—The house, Cowboy. I don't think it's Hummingbird. Over."

A curtain on the second floor moved several inches. Someone was trying very hard to remain undetected by staying away from the windows. He had to do something, _now_. They might have lost their first lead, but fate had just presented Illya a new one.

"— _ust wait for back-up, Peril. You're unarmed. Over._ "

"Negative. Eagle moving in and signing out." Illya folded his paper, and brushed the dust off his pants.

"Peril, dammit, don't—"

He switched off the walkie-talkie and took off his glasses. Cowboy was being paranoid. Illya had been a KGB agent; he was trained in martial arts and excelled in it; he vaguely recalled using a motorcycle as a weapon once. Whoever this burglar was, he or she was in a shit-load of trouble.

Illya stuck his hands in his pocket, and casually crossed the street. His first thought was to go through the front, but that would set off the burglar. Instead, he creeped around the back, careful to step around any branches or leaves. Possibly, someone was on the look-out. He needed to get to them first before they could alarm their partner.

Illya inched towards the far corner of the house. His left hand snaked towards the dark brick, his eyes focused on the glass of his watch. If anyone was there, the glass of his wrist-watch would catch their silhouette. His adrenaline spiked, but he kept his breathing steady. He would not fail. He _could not_ fail. His team needed this lead, and Illya would deliver it.

The back-door was deserted and closed. Illya slowly released a breath. Picking the lock was child's-play, and he silently entered the building. For a second, his mind took him back to Russia, to a familiar routine of slipping into someone's house seconds before assassination, leaving no trail but the blood on the floor. His hands moved instinctively to his belt, only to grasp at nothing. They had agreed on no weapons during a stake-out, because no one needed a repeat of the time a paranoid police officer had mistaken Solo for a stalker who just happened to carry a .22 in his pocket.

Unfortunately, the absence of his gun left Illya more vulnerable. He pondered the possible risks of continuing unarmed for a few seconds, before the sunlight reflecting off a kitchen knife provided a temporary solution.

He moved towards the hall, taking cover wherever he could. The picture frames caught his eye, and Illya found himself drawn towards the one with Waverly in it. For a split second, he felt hesitation. Perhaps he'd imagined the burglar after all? Illya carefully removed the picture frame from the wall, holding it in his hand. A glint flickered over the corner of the glass, across Waverly's face.

Immediately, his heartbeat spiked.

 _Gun_.

Illya dove towards the kitchen on his right, feeling the bullet graze the top of his left shoulder before hitting the ground hard. His mind went into overdrive, and he crawled to find cover. Through the sound of his rushing blood he could hear hurried footsteps coming down the stairs. _One person, male, armed._ Illya's hand went straight for the kitchen knife buried in his coat. He kept his muscles tense, waiting right next to the fridge, feeling the heat of fresh blood spread across his shoulder.

No sound came from the front door at the other end of the hall. With realization, Illya's stomach dropped. _No quick escape. Meaning, he's not just an ordinary burglar, and he's not planning on leaving any witnesses._

Illya adjusted his grip on the knife. He stepped closer to the door opening, holding his breath. The silence stretched on.

Illya blinked, his shoulder stinging. A gun moved around the corner.

Another bullet escaped the gun, but Illya was already pressed against the fridge out of the line of fire. His left fingers encircled the burglar's wrist, pulling hard while his other hand moved the knife towards the left jugular vein. While Illya's body moved quickly, his mind took a different approach by slowly analyzing everything it could process.

 _Male, 5'11", Caucasian, muscular, brown eyes._

His hand was met with a smooth block, and Illya responded in kind by effectively twisting the armed hand. The man groaned hard behind his mask, but levelled the playing field by driving his free elbow into Illya's wounded shoulder. For a second, Illya saw stars, and the knife slipped from his hands.

 _Krav Maga punch. Judo block. Apparent high-level practitioner in both._

It was enough time for his attacker to grab Illya in a choke-hold. _Solo would have a fit if he saw this_ , Illya's mind supplied helpfully, struggling to regain his focus. More adrenaline filled his blood circulation, and Illya pushed with all his strength against the elbow around his neck, twisting the man's arm 180 degrees before delivering a hard kick to his gut.

 _Watch around right wrist. Old piece, Italian model. Most likely left-handed.  
_  
The man gasped, but surprisingly he managed to keep upright. The kick had separated them, and for a moment they both stood breathing hard, watching each other warily. It was clear that neither party seemed ready to forfeit.

Illya was the first to move.

He threw several hard punches, of which one connected with the mandible. The man stumbled into the table, but Illya had failed to notice the gold-painted book support hidden underneath several notebooks. Marble clutched in his hand, the burglar came out swinging, and the piece connected neatly with Illya's left temple.

 _Son of a bi—_

It took everything Illya had not to pass out. He collapsed hard against the fridge, and almost tripped over something lying on the ground. _The gun_ , Illya thought dazedly. By the time he had managed to fire several rounds, the burglar had already fled through the back door. Illya's head felt ready to split apart, and he could feel the warmth of new blood colliding with the partly clotted blood above his collarbone.

" _Shots fired, I repeat: shots fired. Requesting back-up. Over._ "

" _Roger._ _Stand-by, Mike. Over._ "

Illya reached for his coat, his brain barely catching up. _Didn't I turn off the walkie-talkie?_ It took him several seconds to realize the presence of law-enforcement at the front door. He allowed his body to go into auto-pilot, swiping his fingerprints from every item he'd touched, down to the picture frame lying abandoned in the hall, and he pocketed the gun in the back of his pants. There was no use in taking the book stand; the burglar had been thorough by wearing both a mask and gloves.

More voices at the door. The pain in his shoulder had degraded to a dull throb, but his head felt ready to split apart. Illya stumbled clumsily towards the exit. _  
_  
By the time the police had forced the door open, agent Kuryakin had vanished into thin air.

* * *

"For God's sake," Solo breathed out sharply. He turned off the walkie-talkie. _Damn him and his hero-complex._ Illya might have saved Solo's ass more times than he cared to admit, but sometimes his colleague was like a bull in a china shop. He just didn't know how to behave.

If he was truly honest with himself, Solo also felt a little envious of Illya. The library was exceedingly dull, and he'd rather sit outside in the sun and observe an empty house than point out the bathroom's location every twenty minutes. Besides, wasn't he far more useful somewhere else? At the hospital, perhaps?

His feet had already decided for him; it wasn't a long walk to Massachusetts General.

A centerpiece of Boston, Massachusetts General looked more like a theater than a hospital. Eight magnificent pillars stood tall below the Ether dome—a beautifully tiled structure that gleamed like the ocean when the light caressed it. Patients were scattered across the compound, most of them smoking while they enjoyed the warmth of the sun. The angles of their skin showed through their flimsy pajamas as they exchanged cigarettes and words. No one had seen Napoleon snatch a package of cigarettes lying on the worn seat of a lonely wheelchair.

 _I actually did you a favor there,_ Solo thought to himself, grinning _. At your service, gents._

With confidence, he walked over to a young man about his height who was nose-deep in a book. He was seated on the stairs, his back the same arch as the Ether dome, and thin fingers slowly followed the words on the page. Napoleon had to clear his throat to get his attention.

"Need a lighter," Napoleon started, fingering a cigarette, "You have one? Hell, I probably need a second one after the day I had…"

The young man's eyes briefly left the book and locked onto Solo, before returning to his reading material. "Those things will kill you, you know. But yeah, left pocket. Just smoke over there, please, not here."

Solo hummed his appreciation, taking the entire coat as he made his way to the entrance. _Interns_ … _I bet there's not a single one who doesn't need a smoke every now and then_ , Napoleon mused, taking two steps at the time. He clipped the identity card on his right pocket and flicked the unused cigarette into a trash-can. The stethoscope buried in the lower left pocket found its way across Solo's neck.

As expected, the interior of the Bulfinch building was even more intimidating than the exterior. Doctors and nurses in uniforms swarmed the grey tiles, while patients filled the remaining empty space with their laughter, crying, and heated voices. There was a long line at the reception desk, so Solo casually made his way to the left wing of the building. On the inside, he felt at a complete loss. Where did you find a doctor whose job was to be _everywhere_ at the same time?

"Moss! Doctor Moss! Jesus Christ, are you _deaf_?"

A rough hand grabbed his shoulder, and Solo was met with the face of a disgruntled looking doctor. A pair of glasses rested low on a long nose, and the man was scribbling away at a piece of paper. He was moving into the left wing, the way Napoleon was headed, and a pager in the doctor's coat was going haywire.

"Move it, Moss. They need us in Trauma 2." Napoleon hurriedly caught up with him as the doctor kept talking, both men walking at a brisk pace. "Didn't you hear your pager? There's been a road accident at 47; we've been swamped." They turned a corner to the left, then to the right. "Did you get a haircut, by the way? You know what, don't answer that, I don't give a shit." Another corner. A gurney passed them, along with several doctors. A trail of blood followed closely behind.

As soon as they reached the trauma room, Solo took a deep breath. The stench of blood was already sickening. His ears could detect the whimpers drawn out of an injured man, and Napoleon expected a room of chaos to greet him. Instead, nurses were quietly supplying instruments, doctors were calmly discussing their patients, and in the midst of it all was the victim, brace around his neck and bloody, and a blonde-haired doctor was leaning over him to distract him with soft whispers. _Oh crap._

"Doctor Summers, I brought some company, do you mind if Doctor Moss takes a quick look?"

"Of course not. Come closer." Her eyes were still fixed on their patient; her hands skimming over the man's chest with her stethoscope. In a quiet act of desperation, Solo quickly grabbed a status board from the edge of the bed in an attempt to hide his face. He was seconds away from blowing his cover, and Napoleon prayed that Mary would just go along with whatever he was going to say. _  
_  
"Don't hesitate. Come closer." Mary repeated impatiently. Her stethoscope lingered on the right side of the patient. She looked up, and her smooth features grew slack, then almost as white as her uniform.

 _Here we go_ , a sarcastic voice spoke to Napoleon.

"Who is this?" Her voice was sharp to his ears, but the older doctor seemed unfazed and continued to fiddle with the patient's IV. The injured man groaned in response.

"Doctor Moss, meet Doctor Summers. Moss started here last week, remember, Mary?"

"Right, forgive me. Names sometimes escape me." She still hadn't blinked, and while her voice was perfectly steady her eyes betrayed her. She had one hell of a poker face, but Solo could recognize fear when it was staring him in the face.

"What seems to be the problem, Doctor Summers?" Napoleon began, observing another ripple of fear cross Mary's face as he stepped closer. She huffed softly, and his eyes caught the set in her jaw when she broke eye-contact.

 _Waverly blood, no doubt about it now,_ he contemplated.

"Tension pneumothorax. We relieved the lung cavity on site but I suspect that the right middle lobe has been punctured. I ordered a thorax X-ray to be certain." Her hands removed the bloody cloth that had been draped across the patient's right pectoral muscle, and the sight underneath it made his stomach churn. "Would you like to remove the drain, Doctor?"

 _Oh,_ now _she was just messing with him._

"Yes, of course. Excuse me for a moment."

He needed to leave. He needed to leave before he was going to puke all over their patient. He stumbled out of the room, a muttered " _fucking interns with their weak stomachs"_ from the old man fading behind him, and he slipped into the empty room across Trauma 2. Breathing hard, he swallowed back the bile that had collected at the back of this throat.

Within moments, Doctor Summers was in his face, cornering him against the sink.

"Give me one reason not to have the police arrest you. You were in my ho—"

"Listen, it's not what you think."

"Not what I—You're a bloody librarian! Are you _stalking_ me? That's it. I'm done, I—"

As if on cue, the phone on the wall rang.

Mary bit her lip, her eyes not leaving Napoleon's face. "Perhaps you should take that," Napoleon started, interrupting her when she opened her mouth, "—I know, you're not done. I'll wait."

She glared at him, mouthing _Not. Done._ at him before she answered the phone. He rolled his eyes.

"Doctor Summers. Yes, this is she. Excuse me? Are you—Yes. I'll be right there."

Solo had stuffed his hands in his pockets, watching Mary's back go rigid from his point of view. When she turned, the phone still buried in the palm of her hand, he instinctively stepped forward. He hadn't missed the way her breath hitched in her chest.

Something had happened. Something bad.

"I know you feel like you can't trust me, but you _can_. Please, Mary. I'm here to help."

And perhaps it was the way he'd said 'please', or the way he'd reached for the phone in her hand to disconnect the line, or the way his free hand rested just below the curve of her shoulder, but something inside Mary's eyes seemed a little more broken than before.

"It was my son's school. Alex didn't show up in class after lunchbreak."

Napoleon's heart skipped a beat. He could feel her shoulder sagging underneath his hand and the weight of her words.

"He's gone, Nathan, Alex's gone."

* * *

 **A/N:** DUN DUN DUN! I'm hitting all the clichés in suspense writing. I'm fully aware of it. Please let me know what you think, reviews make me feel like eating that big chunk of caramel fudge in one sitting: wonderful, slightly regretful I can't have more, and extremely bloated.


	5. Chapter five

\- Chapter five -

 **Berliner**

 _"The law of sacrifice is uniform throughout the world. To be effective it demands the sacrifice of the bravest and most spotless." – Passage taken from Mahatma Gandhi's book: Non-violent Resistance (Satyagraha), 1951.  
_

* * *

"Before I say anything, you have to promise not to be mad."

Gaby crossed her arms, resting her back against the cold stone of the alley. A bag of trash lay forgotten at her feet, and a lonely pigeon nipped at a piece of stale bread. The narrow passage was far from ideal for a rendezvous, with the possibility of Jeffrey walking in on them through the back door, but Solo's message had been urgent. Or rather, his facial expressions had been, as he had signaled wildly at her for a good ten minutes from the other side of the street.

"You do realize that is _not_ a good strategy to break bad news to a woman," Gaby whispered, shooing the curious pigeon away with her shoe. "Out with it, Solo. I told Nina that I'd be back in ten."

"Fine. The library fired me."

"The library—They _fired_ you!? Are you serious?" Gaby exclaimed incredulously, poking Napoleon's chest with one finger. His features remained mostly impassive at her response; only the crease between his eyebrows showed his dismay as she continued to stab her fingernail into the angle of his sternum. "You had onejob Napoleon, _one_. Watch Doctor Summers while you work at the library."

"Technically speaking, those are two jobs."

Gaby took a big gulp of air, ready for a new rant, but Napoleon silenced her by pressing a finger against her lips. Consequently, another bout of anger burned at the back of Gaby's throat, but the efflux of her words was stopped by the pad of Solo's thumb. "Gaby, please, I'm not done yet." He gave her an apologetic look, his eyes sliding to the back door and back to Gaby.

"What do you mean _'I'm not done yet',_ " Gaby hissed at him. "There's more?"

"You promised you wouldn't be mad." Napoleon pouted, supporting his weight against the wall with his left hand.

"I promised no such thing. And stop pouting, you're a grown man, Napoleon."

Napoleon grinned at her, and it made Gaby wonder briefly why on earth she put up with these men on a daily basis. _Because you care for them,_ Gaby's mind sing-songed, _more than you'd like to admit._

Solo eyed the back door again, avoiding her gaze when he spoke. "It's about Hummingbird. She's waiting for me around the corner." He locked eyes with her again, effortlessly predicting the flare in her temper. "Don't— _Gaby_ , I haven't finished my sentence yet."

Solo lazily rubbed the bridge of his nose with his right hand, but Gaby could see the tension setting in his jaw. It was enough to silence her for a moment.

"It's blackbird," He whispered, his voice a low murmur, "I have reason to believe he's been kidnapped."

Gaby's first thought was doubt. Blackbird kidnapped; it simply wasn't possible. Illya had been watching him closely. He'd been at school with him. They had set up a perimeter as a precaution, for the short exposure during lunch break. Kidnapping Blackbird wasn't one of the possibilities they continued to consider.

 _Unless someone got rid of Illya_ , Gaby thought, suddenly feeling paralyzed. Illya wouldn't have allowed anyone to get to Blackbird. What if he'd been outnumbered? Gaby tried hard to remember Illya's personal schedule, but the tightness in her chest made her head swim.

"Peril's fine, Gaby, he was on a stake-out at Hummingbird's place," Napoleon started, grabbing her shoulders with both hands and giving her a gentle shake, like he was trying to physically snap her back to reality. _Am I really that easy to read?_ Gaby worried fleetingly. "We need to focus on Blackbird. If the cartel has him, it's only a matter of time before they—"

That's when the back door swung open, and the silhouette of her surrogate boss stepped into the alley. The man had already proved to possess a habit of horrible timing. "Liesel, break's over. Nina needs help with an order."

Napoleon was always the quicker one to react. In one smooth motion, he leaned in to press his lips gently to hers.

His left hand snaked around her waist shyly, settling against the base of her spine as he pulled her towards him, and his right thumb traveled easily to the curve of her cheekbone. It took Gaby a second to catch up before her mouth returned the pressure, her fingers catching in the fabric of his white coat. Solo was obviously waiting for Jeffrey to intervene as he softly worried Gaby's lower lip with his own, and when Jeffrey finally cleared his throat, he pulled back an inch to touch his forehead to Gaby's.

"Eagle's place after your shift. Phoenix will be present," Napoleon breathed the words so quietly that she almost missed them.

Then he was gone, his shadow the last to disappear around the corner of the alley. Slowly, Gaby made her way to the door her boss had been keeping ajar with his foot. Amusement painted his face when she fulfilled her short walk of shame.

"Really? A doctor? Already?" Jeffrey jabbed playfully.

Gaby hummed slowly, ignoring the chuckle that followed her response. Whatever reason she had for putting up with them and their impossible antics, Waverly would do well to get back to that raise she'd asked about in January. Days like these were most definitely _not_ in the job description.

* * *

When Nathan had barged into the trauma room, impersonating a junior doctor, Mary's first instinct had been to confront him, then warn the authorities.

She'd been afraid, but that emotion had been roughly shoved aside by anger. Anger at the way this man had violated her trust after she had let him into her home. Anger at herself for taking those risks, despite everything that had happened the last couple of weeks. Her primary concern would always be Alexander, she was all he had left and vice versa, and to think that she had almost jeopardized his safety for a pair of sharp eyes. It made her sick to her stomach.

Then Susan had called, the principle of Newman Elementary School, and for the second time that day she had felt like throwing up the acidic remains of her breakfast. Ironically, the blue-eyed perpetrator had become her solitary support in this twisted turn of events.

He had promised her he would do everything in his power to bring Alexander home. She had no reason to trust nor believe him, and yet she did.

Nathan had asked her to contact her supervisor and, as quickly as possible, come to the corner of the Bova Bakery. While her mouth was working hard to formulate an excuse for her impending absence, her frontal cortex failed to understand why they were meeting at the bakery when they should be going straight to Alexander's school.

Finally arriving at the corner of Garden Street, Nathan didn't greet her and instead took her arm as he guided her down the sidewalk. He had donned his white coat and glasses, and the lines around his eyes had tightened. The sun cast long shadows behind them, its strong light beaming in their faces despite its continuous descent. After walking for a good five minutes, Mary yanked her arm free from his grip.

"You're going the wrong way! Why are we not going to his school?!"

"He won't be there. We'll be wasting valuable time to confirm what we already know."

"So tell me what we're spending our time on. I need to know _something_ , Nathan."

He sighed deeply, and stuck his hands deep in his pockets. She could tell his hesitation by the subtle hunch of his shoulders. She'd seen it before in the room opposite Trauma 2. Nathan was obviously holding back information, perhaps to protect himself, but Mary couldn't find it in herself to sympathize with him.

Whether he trusted her or not didn't interest Mary; she was simply done with being kept in the dark.

"You need to give me something, Nathan," Mary repeated quietly, crossing her arms over her chest. They stayed like that for a few breaths, eyes locked and eyebrows knitted together. After another minute of silence, he finally caved.

"I have a colleague who can help us, but I have reason to believe he's been injured. You help him, I help you find your son. Deal?"

His hand hovered in the empty air.

Mary blinked. His response threw her off guard, and she carefully pondered the righteousness of her maternal instincts by comparing it to reason. Was it wrong to compromise the neutral position she held as a doctor? Treating person X to save person Y, based on self-interest, surely made her anything but an impartial clinician? She prided herself on her ability to remain unbiased, but that was before Alexander's life had been on the line. Was there even a right decision here?

Mary's brain struggled to distinguish selfishness from sacrifice, and a flood of doubt filled the space in between.

Was she capable of sacrifice? One of the things her job had taught her, was that the law of sacrifice was uniform throughout the world. It demanded the suffering of the brave, whether they held the cold hands of their loved ones or shared organs after death through altruistic belief. Whenever death threatened to divide her patients, it was also that same kind of suffering that brought them closer together. Besides love, no other force was strong enough to accomplish what sacrifice could.

Slowly, Mary extended her hand to grip his.

She knew now that she was prepared to lose everything if it meant protecting Alexander. She just prayed she would be brave enough.

* * *

When Gaby was back at Illya's front door that same afternoon, she wasn't sure what to expect.

Throughout the rest of her shift, she had tried hard to work out why they were placing Mary in a room with Waverly. Why they were _all_ blowing their covers, despite the fact that only Solo had interacted with Hummingbird. Gaby shook her head slowly, trying to make sense of this mess. The kidnapping of Alexander couldn't be everything there was to the story. Waverly always got touchy about abandoning a cover; the only exception he had ever agreed on was impending death.

Back in Italy, she had maintained her own cover which (partly) had led to the success of the mission. Napoleon, on the other hand, had abandoned his in his own glamorous manner, and Gaby had figured he didn't care much for Waverly's opinion on the matter. Or perhaps he was trying to get himself an early retirement, and now she really ought to tell him that _this_ was not the way one wins the favor of Waverly.

The door opened, startling Gaby. The beaming face of Napoleon greeted her. Combined with his bright blue eyes, his face was the picture of innocence. "Liesel! _So_ glad you could make it to the party. Do come in!"

 _Nope_ , a voice in Gaby's head finished her train of thought, _pretty sure he doesn't give a shit about becoming employee of the month._

Napoleon took her coat, and quickly led her to the small living room. Her eyes only caught the picture frame wrapped around the happy smile of a dog. The sight that greeted her next was a far more horrendous one, and Gaby's stomach plummeted.

Illya was seated on the couch, his shirt crumpled up in one hand while the other held a silver flask, no doubt filled with alcohol. Dried blood was clinging to the left side of his face, just below a bright white patch on his temple, the scarlet framing his jaw and painting his collarbone and left shoulder. Underneath his epidermis a dark blue tinge had attempted to mingle with his pale skin. While his expression was neutral, Gaby wasn't fooled. Flexing his fingers was his tell-tale sign.

On Illya's side, Doctor Summers' hands were pulling Illya's broken skin back together. The coffee table had been emptied of their files, and was now covered in medical supplies ranging from alcohol swipes to gauze. Gaby could barely pull her eyes away from the occasional plunge the needle and thread took into Illya's skin. Swallowing hard, she turned to fix Napoleon with her angriest glare.

"You said he was _fine_ ," she fumed at him, struggling to keep her emotions in check. _This isn't Istanbul, Gaby. You're overreacting_ , she told herself, repeating the words like a mantra. It did little to calm her down.

"He is! A little banged up, but fine! Right, Anton?"

Illya's head dipped in a short nod as he watched Gaby intently. Her heart was still thumping against her ribs, and he watched her as if he could hear its rhythm. "Burglar in Doctor's house got away, but not without a scratch."

"Doctor, you've met Liesel," Napoleon interjected casually.

"Should have known that such a pretty face in an ordinary bakery meant trouble," Mary grumbled, her long fingers working smoothly on the last stitch in Illya's shoulder. With practiced ease, she sealed the wound with sterile gauze and tape before admiring her handiwork.

"There," she said, removing her gloves, "All done. Get them removed in 5 to 7 days. Sooner if it becomes infected. No heavy physical exercise, no fighting with burglars, no getting knocked in the head. Oh, who am I kidding?"

Illya's eyes drifted from Gaby to Mary. "Thank you," he said courteously, and Gaby observed how easily he slipped back into his cover profile. To Mary, he was still Anton Volkov, and the protection that came with this name eased some of the pressure in Gaby's lungs.

They were not compromised. Not yet.

The sharp ring of the doorbell echoed in the living room. Napoleon was already at the door, and the familiar fall and rise of Waverly's footsteps greeted Gaby's ears. She glanced at Illya, only he was staring attentively at Mary. Confusion nibbled at Gaby's consciousness, but one look at her boss' face told her enough.

Mary and Waverly were not strangers.

As if on cue, Mary rose sharply from the couch, and took three big strides towards Waverly. Her face was stark white, her light blue eyes large, and the expression painted her face in a way that made her look ten years older. Her hands seemed glued to her side, and nobody dared to break the silence.

Well, except her boss, of course. He was never the tactful one.

"Mary. It's good to see you," Waverly began carefully, his lips pulling sideways in his charming trademark smile.

Mary's hand shot forward so rapidly, it seemed that her movement had travelled faster than the sound it produced. Alexander's head snapped to the side, a red glow quickly spreading across his cheek, and the unexpectedness of Mary's action had everyone rooted to the spot, including Waverly. Then, almost as quickly, the doctor surged forwards, catching the long limbs that belonged to her boss in a tight embrace while the words 'you _bastard_ ' were lost against his vest. After several beats, Alexander returned the embrace just as tightly.

Never before had Gaby felt as confused as she did then. Luckily, there was always Napoleon Solo.

"Oh, yeah, Liesel, I totally forgot to mention earlier. Mary's his niece."

Gaby groaned inwardly. "Seriously?! You had time for a kiss but not time for that?"

"Hey, I prioritized."

"What kiss?" Illya interfered sharply, his head snapping back and forth between his colleagues.

"He also got Doctor Moss suspended," Mary mumbled into the fabric of Waverly's suit.

"Doctor Moss?" Illya parroted.

"And to think being fired by the library wasn't enough for one day," Gaby sighed deeply, her fingertips massaging the ache building up in her right temple.

"You got fired?!" the Russian exclaimed loudly.

"Everyone, shut it," Waverly parenthesized, gently disentangling himself from Mary's grip. He squeezed her shoulder before filling his pockets with his hands, but his eyes remained glued to the woman in front of him. "There's much to discuss, and very little time to do so."

The room lapsed into silence again, and Gaby watched her boss with growing interest. She had never seen him interact with anyone the way he was doing now. With Mary. Who was his _niece_.

 _Holy shit._

"The cartel has already reached out to Mary," Solo spoke, his face grim. "They want her to publicly admit she has been trading diamorphine for cash, and they want her to do this at the annual Albert Lasker award ceremony on October 9th. Which is Wednesday. Which is tomorrow."

"Which, I will, for the record," Mary stated, raising her chin.

"I expected as much," Waverly replied, but Gaby's ears couldn't detect defeat. Instead, they detected mischief, a frequency she had developed a sensitivity for over the past few years.

Her mouth spoke on its own. "You have a plan."

Waverly grinned, like a little boy caught in the act. Gaby was a hundred percent sure she was not going to like what came next.

"When was the last time you performed _The Nutcracker_ _?"_

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm back folks! And surprise: I've got two chapters for you lovely readers. (I'm starting to sense a pattern here. The guilt of not uploading has forever changed me!) So hit that cute little "next chapter" button, but not before dropping a note to tell me what you guys think! …Pretty please?


	6. Chapter six

\- Chapter six -

 **Berliner**

 _"You have to love dancing to stick to it. It gives you nothing back, no manuscripts to store away, no paintings to show on walls and maybe hang in museums, no poems to be printed and sold, nothing but that single fleeting moment when you feel alive." ― Merce Cunningham, one of America's most renowned dancers and choreographers._

* * *

To Illya, Gaby would always be full of surprises.

Despite her being a private person, he was proud to say he knew many things about her. She was stubborn and headstrong, like her father had been. He had learned that her fashion taste was much better than Cowboy's (though this was not a hard thing to accomplish), yet she would always prefer her stained overalls to a pretty dress.

He also knew Gaby preferred her coffee black. She was an incredible lightweight. Her truffle risotto was unexcelled. She was decent at judo, but she sucked at chess.

And she had a habit of raising her eyebrows at people she both liked and disliked, a trait Illya would always find confusing about her.

But a ballerina? Like he said: full of surprises.

Illya tried to watch the crowd, and the way the people trickled slowly into the building like the dripping of a mild morning shower. Despite his efforts to stay focused, his eyes kept gliding back to the outline of Gaby's back, like a magnet kept pulling at his pupils. He could catch glimpses of her as she moved backstage, just a couple of feet behind the red curtain. Illya strained his eyes to see more.

 _"Hummingbird has entered the building."_

The crackle of Solo's voice startled him, and Illya silenced the walkie-talkie before he scanned the crowd, until he spotted Mary. In less than two hours, Mary was supposed to give the opening speech, and announce this year's winner of the Albert Lasker Award. It was an annual event, meant to honor those who had done the clinical medical research a great service by understanding, preventing or curing a certain disease.

 _She might be brilliant, but her judgement is clouded._ The thought intruded Illya's mind as his eyes skipped over Hummingbird. Their plan was very time-sensitive and dependent on one of Waverly's newest gadgets. Both factors increased the likelihood of failure while the stakes remained high. Hummingbird could lose her job. Blackbird could lose his life.

" _We all know how messy drug-cartels can be."_ Waverly's words on board _The Brave Challenger_ echoed in Illya's head.

Out of the corner of his eye, Illya saw Solo maneuver through the mass of people, his hand supporting a silver platter with glasses of champagne. He passed Mary, allowing her to take two glasses from him before she joined a group of colleagues, and they didn't spare each other a second glance.

 _Good,_ Illya thought absently, _Cowboy was right about her poker face._

"Performance is starting in 15,"

Gaby whispered through the earpiece, and Illya watched as she pulled at the red curtain in an attempt to seal off the backstage area from the prying eyes of visitors. Or perhaps she'd caught Illya staring. Cowboy had always told him he wasn't a very subtle man. He cleared his throat and his hand instinctively reached for the device in his pocket.

 _"Copy that, Swan. Peacock, get ready for phase 2."_

Illya moved slowly to the proscenium, a narrow curve separating the stage from the crowd occupied by a chamber orchestra of about 40 to 50 men and women. If he wanted to monitor all three levels of the Colonial Theater, he needed a better view. To an outsider, the Colonial Theater of Boston looked like any other building; grey, worn and unsuitable to host even the smallest of parties. Despite its shabby exterior, the theater was the oldest continually-operating theatre in Boston, built in 1900 and recently renovated—less than three years ago, if Illya recalled correctly.

Having reached the proscenium, Illya turned around to admire the beauty of the theater. Seats of rich mahogany wood adorned with dark emerald-colored fabric filled the spacious room before Illya, placed so snugly together that there were already hundreds of guests seated and only two horizontal lanes separating their excited faces.

Both balconies which floated above the crowd had less depth compared to the ground floor, yet their curved design made room for four individual sets consisting of about a hundred seats each. Railings coated with gold arched themselves around the edges of the balconies, and its beautifully curved pattern reminded Illya of a jungle bursting with leaves and flowers.

His eyes travelled upwards, towards the circular fresco above him. Three winged men, their arms spread wide and chests bare, stared back at him. The ceiling was too high for Illya to read their facial expressions, but his best guess was that they were meant to be the protectors of this grand theater.

The Russian agent huffed. _There are only three people present who will protect this theater,_ Illya thought to himself, his eyes pulled back to the crowd. _Neither has wings, and one of them is_ definitely _a woman._

With that, Illya removed his earpiece, pulled a small black box from his pocket, and pushed the button.

* * *

While agent Kuryakin watched the crowd, Gaby's eyes were transfixed on the outline of the Russian's broad shoulders.

When Waverly had asked him how long it had been since she had last performed _The Nutcracker_ , Gaby's mind had flooded with memories of her childhood. The first time she'd danced _The Nutcracker_ as first soloist, she'd barely been a woman and much more a gangly sixteen-year-old; awkward and clumsy with everything that wasn't a screwdriver or didn't involve old-timers.

9 years before that, at 7 years old, Gaby's father had left her at a foster family; the Schmidts. The abandonment of her only family had left deep marks on her fragile psyche, and during the first couple of weeks she had wanted absolutely nothing to do with the Schmidts, constantly locking herself in her bedroom to distance herself from the unfamiliarity of this family. Naturally, her surrogate parents had tried to coax her out of her bedroom, offering her presents and promising to cook her everything she could possibly wish for.

There wasn't anything she wanted. She only wanted her father.

Then, on a brisk Saturday morning at the beginning of the fall, a sharp knock at her bedroom door had pulled her out of bed. She hadn't been sleeping—she could barely sleep those days—so she'd pulled on her favorite overall in less than ten seconds before pressing her ear against the door.

 _"Wer ist da?"_

 _"It's Harry! Can you open the door, please?"_

Reluctantly, Gaby turned the key in its lock and peeked around the corner of the baby blue colored wood. Harry Schmidt's round face smiled back at her. He was a British mechanic who had moved to Berlin approximately 20 years ago, in 1925. Harry came from a long line of talented mechanics, and during the first World War he had personally served the British Royal Family. After three years of working for the palace, he had fallen in love with the Royal Ballet's first soloist, Elise. She was a beautiful 18-year-old dancer, with angel hair as brilliantly white as her ballerina dress and a reputation so grand that she had performed countless times for the Queen of England.

Two years post-war, Harry had followed Elise to Germany, to ask her father for his daughter's hand in marriage. They were married less than half a year later, and staying with her in Berlin, away from his loving family and friends, was what he had described to Gaby as the most profound act of love he had never thought himself capable of until he had met _her_.

It had taken Gaby several years not to feel envious of the way Harry and Elise loved each other so deeply. It was something she had never seen between her own parents, and never would.

Harry smiled his lop-sided smile. _"Here's the thing, Gaby. I've been having some trouble repairing my old lady,"_ he had said, his eyes twinkling. _"She's awfully stubborn sometimes, and I'd ask Elise to talk to her, woman to woman, but she won't be back for another two hours."_

 _"Ich weiß nicht—"_

 _"Don't worry about that, I can teach you."_

He had taught her everything he knew, and she had flourished under his tutelage. It was therapeutic to her; every time she took apart the greasy pieces of an old engine, the battered pieces of her own heart seem to crawl back together. Her bedroom door hadn't been locked since that Saturday morning.

Gaby shook her head, physically trying to force the memory back into her subconscious. This was not the time for nostalgia. Phase 2 had been completed, and in less than a few seconds, Illya would initiate phase 3. She needed to be on top of her game.

Scanning the guests, Gaby's eyes glided across the eager faces. Many of them were forty-something Caucasian males, their wives glued to their sides with young faces and shimmering form-fitting dresses. Rolling her eyes at this, Gaby tried to spot doctor Summers.

Instantly, Gaby's heartrate spiked.

Mary Summers was looking straight at her.

It was impossible to read the doctor's face from this distance, but there was one message that the doctor was clearly trying to convey. Without another thought, Gaby spun on her heel and disappeared into the right wing.

* * *

The entire crowd was seated. The roar of their happy chatter was deafening.

Illya thumbed the button again as he monitored the guests vigorously.

 _Why is no one standing up?!_ Illya thought irritably, frustration fueling his impatience. He pushed the small button again. _Perhaps it is broken?_ As inconspicuously as he could, Illya shook the device and tried again. Nothing. One of the guests seated at the front row was watching him warily.

Illya blinked and checked his watch. They only had a couple more minutes before Gaby went live. The Russian squinted his eyes against the bright lights of the spotlights overhead. A glint caught his peripheral vision, and Illya automatically turned towards the source of the offending light.

Immediately, he spotted his colleague.

Gaby was standing behind the red curtain, her body obscured by the darkness of the right wing. She was talking at a continuous pace, but it was too fast for Illya to lip-read. A small mirror was clutched in her right hand, and her left hand was swinging back and forth over the glass in a repetitive matter.

 _Morse code_. The same three letters over and over again. M…I…C…

Promptly, Illya turned off the black device and pocketed it. He put the earpiece back in his right ear.

"— _empty seat. Lower balcony, third set, fifth row, first seat from the right. Mary has seen him leave for the bathroom six times, and he just left again."_

Illya took a startled breath. _"Peacock, did you—"_

 _"Roger that, Swan, Eagle. My feathery behind is on it."_

Illya rolled his eyes, but nonetheless he felt his pulse pick up pace. Tonight's stakes were too high to ignore coincidences. Either this guest had a serious bladder problem, or he had other business to attend to. Illya tried to suppress his grin. Maybe that explained why their earpiece interference system hadn't worked out. Perhaps their moll was communicating the old-fashioned way: whispering tonight's progressions through a dirty bathroom window.

Above Illya, the chandeliers dimmed and the spotlights were moved manually. The chamber orchestra readied their instruments. In response, the entire crowd stood and clapped enthusiastically. Feeling slightly awkward, Illya stepped further into the shadows of the stage, but the faces before him weren't paying any attention to him. Their gazes were focused on something, or someone, behind him.

Illya followed their lines of sight and his breath caught in his throat.

It was his chop-shop girl, alone on the stage. Her arms were elegantly curved together, her feet poised only centimeters apart. Illya's eyes travelled the length of her long and defined legs, hidden by white thin fabric but tense with anticipation. The layers of her skirt seemed to bristle as they travelled horizontally, the frilly lace barely covering the gentle curve of her hips.

Illya's gaze strayed further, up and up. A tight golden corset had seemingly woven itself around Gaby's petite frame; the edge of the sweetheart neckline laced with diamonds which dazzled in the spotlight. His eyes wandered the familiar path of her slender neck, to the sharp jawline and eyes as dark and gravitational as the earth beneath his feet.

Illya was entranced. His lungs burned with a lack of oxygen. He sucked in a sharp and long breath just as the orchestra started to play, and Gaby moved in harmony with the rise and fall of his chest. As she whirled around, more graceful than her codename ever could be, Illya had only one thought in mind.

 _This job will be the death of me._

* * *

 _I'm going live in 5 minutes._

Mary was frantically pacing back and forth behind the tall curtain of the left wing. On her left, a golden envelope with beautifully calligraphed letters lay forgotten. Its contents held this year's winner of the Albert Lasker Award. Mary couldn't find it in herself to care.

 _What's taking them so long?!_

The bakery girl turned protective detail turned prima ballerina, _Liesel_ , Mary thought her name was, had just given the performance of a lifetime. There was _no way_ this woman was a regular security for hire. Mary had only seen someone dance like that when she'd been a young girl, back in London, when her mother had brought her to a performance of the Royal Ballet.

A young red-headed woman materialized behind Mary. The young doctor jumped visibly.

"Two more minutes, doctor," the woman announced, glancing nervously at the envelope. Upon seeing Mary's face, the friendly smile on the redhead's face wavered. "Everything alright, doctor?"

 _No, everything is not alright. My son is kidnapped and his life depends on a team of three security guards consisting of a Russian judo teacher, a librarian and a ballerina who was twirling in circles on stage only seconds ago. We're a lost cause._

"Yes, quite alright, Hannah. Just stage-fright, I suppose."

Hannah smiled politely. "That's perfectly normal, doctor. I am confident you will do brilliantly out there."

 _Oh, you won't think that when you're going to hear what I have to announce to the world._

Mary forced a smile on her face. She straightened her spine, picked up the envelope, and ignored Hannah's encouraging nod.

With lead in her shoes, Mary walked to the center of the stage.

A thunderous applause greeted her. Sweat trickled down her back, pooling at the base of her spine behind the fabric of her long navy-blue dress. Her eyes had difficulty adjusting to the lights, and when she dipped her head she caught the silhouette of the Russian on her left. He was mouthing something, probably speaking into his earpiece. Mary gripped the envelope a little tighter. Without the paper, she was sure her hands would have trembled.

Fear wasn't a familiar emotion to Marianne. She had witnessed its destructiveness regularly, the way its vines gripped the hearts of her patients and left them hollow shells when they realized death was near. However, _defeat_ was no stranger to her. While it usually left her as empty as her patients, it was now the catalyst of her wobbly knees and soaring heartrate.

A microphone stand stood tall before her. She unclenched her jaw and spoke directly into the curved silver transducer.

"Thank you. I would like to give all of you a warm welcome and thank those who have made this year's edition of the Albert Lasker Award possible."

Another applause. A lone drop trickled down her neck and rested in the hollow behind her collarbone. She hoped that the bright lights wouldn't accentuate her glistening skin.

"It is a great honor to stand before you, on this special day. To celebrate the mind-boggling progression of medical science is a tribute to an equally special businessman, Albert Lasker. It was he who introduced this award in 1945. As you might be aware, I was a rebellious fifteen-year-old teenager at the time, sneaking out of my parents' house in London at four in the morning."

The unexpected moment of honesty drew a startled laugh from the audience.

"I was off to the library, mind you," Mary added mischievously, and the crowd laughed again. For a minute, she felt more at ease. She turned over the envelope clutched in her hands. It felt heavier than ever.

 _It's worth it. He's worth it, Mary._

She blew out air through her nostrils and pushed on.

"I had wanted to be a doctor then. I read every medical journal I could get my hands on, and while my friends went out to the local pub, I pondered the marvels of human biology. At fifteen, I never realized that no amount of literature could prepare me for the hardships of my chosen destiny." Mary breathed deeply, maintaining eye-contact with the men and women before her. "I lost my first patient when I was 26. I had been an anesthesiologist for only two months. I didn't have a lot of experience with life, and I didn't have a lot of experience with death, either."

The crowd kept silent. An elderly woman coughed.

"My patient had passed due to rapid metabolic acidosis. Quite literally, her insides had turned acidic. She'd been too far gone at the time to prevent it, but if we'd detected it _sooner_ , she might still be alive today. This experience was the drive behind my collaboration with doctor John Severinghaus and powered our quest to develop the first useful blood gas analysis apparatus by combining the technology we already have. I am delighted to say that I haven't lost a patient to metabolic acidosis ever since."

The crowd erupted in applause. Their bright faces beamed back at Mary.

"However," Mary continued, and the crowd quieted down again, "A war has been raging against us and against our patients. A new enemy has risen from the darkness of this city, and we all have been struggling to repel the poisonous distribution of diamorphine. We're capable of treatment, but in contrast we are consistently too late. I feel responsible for their losses. No, let me rephrase that, I _am…_ "

The crowd was mumbling. Mary hadn't realized she had closed her eyes until she opened them. A blonde man was pointing at her. No, he was pointing at someone _beside_ her. Bewildered, Mary's head snapped to the right.

Nathan Harris flashed her a disarming smile.

Mary was dumbstruck. By the sound of their chatter, she was certain that the crowd was equally confused. In one fluent motion, the dark-haired man grabbed the microphone and turned to the audience.

"Pardon my intrusion, ladies and gentleman. It seems that there has been a mix-up concerning the envelopes. Terribly sorry, allow me to set this straight at once."

An awkward chuckle reverberated through the hall. Turning away from the microphone, Nathan handed her an envelope. Mary felt rather than saw how Nathan deftly plucked his own envelope out of her hand as they pretended to swap under the scrutiny of hundreds of spectators. His strange behavior conveyed to Mary a message that nearly made her faint with relief.

 _He's safe. Alexander is safe._

Blinking hard to hold back her tears, Mary once again addressed her colleagues.

* * *

The bottle of scotch was taunting Waverly from the other side of the room.

The red diagonal label lined with gold was an expected addition to every hotel room, especially ones in this price range. Normally, he would have instructed the staff to remove all alcoholic drinks, as a precaution. He hadn't put a bottle to his lips for almost 20 years, yet he never trusted himself enough not to slip up when a mission was challenging.

And challenging it was. Mary was his sole remaining relative, the only breathing family he had left, so he'd fought hard to keep her out of his life. In his profession, his relatives ended up killed. His younger brother, parents and mother's brother could account for that.

Alexander recalled in perfect detail the first—and apparently, not last—time he had compromised his cover. His actions had been vital for the success of a mission, and as a result he had received the George Cross; a symbol of recognition for acts of the highest bravery. That had been more than ten years ago.

 _"You didn't have to break your cover," Solo challenged, his tall frame leaning against the leather chair opposite Waverly. His other agent, Kuryakin, was standing in front of the television, watching a repeat of today's news broadcast. The blonde's head turned marginally at Solo's voice._

 _"You could have kept her in the dark. Besides, you can only win that medal once, can't you?"_

 _Waverly sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his right hand. Solo was right._ Of course _he was. He didn't have to reveal his true identity to Mary. Knowledge is what got people killed. The only reason he broke his cover was—_

 _"Kompromat, I believe is the Russian word. Mary had attempted to reach me soon after you visited her, Solo. She left a message. She's always been quick on her feet."_

 _"You could have denied it," said Kuryakin, stepping forward to stand next to Solo. The way his two agents synchronized drew a laugh from Waverly, and he stood up abruptly._

 _"You know," Waverly said, and damn him if he couldn't keep the fondness out of his voice, "I liked it better when you two were trying to murder each other."_

 _Solo nodded, and Kuryakin responded with a short "Da". Both men took this as their cue to leave. Waverly had intended it as such._

Waverly fingered the label of the bottle, his thumb tracing the little man with the walking stick. Kompromat. Telling Mary about his true identity wasn't exactly damaging material, but it was dangerous. She could be captured. They might torture her. They would kill her. He wasn't naive enough to think the latter wouldn't happen.

In his defense, he had initially planned never to meet his niece. She'd been a little girl, last time he had seen her. Many years after, in 1951, he'd gone to London on an undercover op. Posing as a Geophysicist at an annual conference, he had met Peter Summers. The 23-year-old man was a brilliant and incredibly driven scientist, engaged to a beautiful woman, and they were expecting their first child.

Peter had reminded him so much of his younger brother that it had repaired some of the battered pieces of his heart. Keeping in touch with the younger man had been a rookie mistake, one that Waverly would have to live with for the rest of his life.

Barely a year had passed, and Peter's wife had died giving birth to their son, Alexander. Death found Peter a year later, just when things had started looking up for him. Peter had fallen in love with another woman, and they had sealed their love in marriage only days before the car accident.

Sometimes, Waverly wished he had never found out that Peter had married Mary Waverly, the only child of his mother's brother. How could anyone blame him for slipping up? Mary and Alexander would have been dead by now if it hadn't been for his meddling. He was sure of it.

It didn't matter that he had interfered by calling in a favor from the head of Anesthesiology of Massachusetts General Hospital. It didn't matter that he had arranged the beautiful house with red bricks on Walnut street to be vacant and within Mary's price-range. All that mattered was that he had kept her and her son safe.

 _"Hummingbird, huh?"_

 _Mary snorted, then laughed aloud. "What, because I hover over my patients?"_

 _Waverly grinned at her and nodded. He watched as Mary pulled a carton of milk from the refrigerator._

 _"And your…spies?" Mary laughed again and shook her head, as if the entire situation was simply ludicrous. To her, it probably was. "They're your henchmen, or something?"_

 _"Or something," Waverly replied playfully. The mock-scornful look she sent him made his chest clench._

 _"Well, I'm glad they were there. They saved Alex. I'm eternally grateful to them. And to you, for that matter."_

 _Waverly shook his head, and for a moment he wasn't quite sure what to say. Emotions were compromising,_ this _was compromising. Allowing himself to have this…this connection…it was blasphemy._

 _He would have to disappear after the mission. He had chosen this life without strings, and thus he would have to live with by the rules._

 _He just prayed he would be brave enough._

Alexander shook the milk carton. Empty. The cold emanating from the fridge did little to wake him up. He needed to get his act together. _Focus on the facts_ , Waverly thought. _The facts are inalterable.  
_  
Simon H., code-named _Robin_ , had OD'ed in the hospital. A little digging had showed that Robin had been dating Nina Bova, the daughter of the Bakery's owner. Nina Bova hadn't been sighted for years: rumor had it that she had left Boston after a fight with her father.

They had nothing on the handler who Kuryakin had encountered on Tuesday. The man they'd intercepted at the theater—a young anesthesiologist—had denied everything but had been stupid enough to hide a slip of paper with Alexander's location in his pocket. They had found the boy tied up but unharmed in an abandoned garage, just around the corner of the Bakery.

Which left them with nothing. No leads. Frustrated, Waverly bit his tongue. All of his efforts to keep them safe had been nothing more than a futile struggle with faith.

He twisted the cap of the bottle. The aftertaste of his failure was as bitter as the scotch in his hands.

* * *

 **A/N:** Jeez! Longest. Chapter. Ever! I've been away for a while (thank you, captain Obvious), but this time off gave me some insight on how to finish this story. Don't worry, though: there are plenty of chapters to come! Next one up will be a little more centered about Gaby (remember folks, she's the star). Also, Jeffrey will make an appearance! Why? Honestly, I have no freaking clue. Whether he will hit it off with Gaby or with someone else is something I'll keep secret a little longer! Please hit that lovely little button before you go to let me know what you think!


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